Shivery
by Green Eve
Summary: Dark Literati. Jess offered her his hand, and she took it; she climbed out her bedroom window.
1. 1

_**Disclaimer:** _This story is only fan fiction, not a Machiavellian plot to steal the copyright of the Gilmore Girls. 

  
  


**Shivery**

It was after dark when he knocked on her bedroom window, startling her. She was embarrassed; she had been lying on her side on the cool hardwood floor. Somehow it seemed safer down there; the world wasn't spinning quite so quickly. She had her knees drawn up to her chest, and she was staring at the dust bunnies beneath her bed. She never got around to cleaning under there. Usually she was a very tidy person. To Rory, the dust bunnies were just more evidence of her moral decline. 

She picked herself up, unconsciously smoothing her rumpled uniform. She stared out the window a moment, then opened the sash. "Go away!" she whispered. 

"Rory," he whispered back. 

"You have to go now!" she told him. "If Dean sees you here, he'll kill you." 

He laughed. "Who cares?" 

"Please," she begged. "It's just too hard." 

"Are you afraid of him?" he asked seriously. 

"No!" she said. She wasn't. She was afraid of hurting him. Of hurting him more. 

"Are you sure?" he asked. 

She felt like she wanted to cry, because he didn't understand. She had cried so much today. She literally couldn't cry any more. "Go away," she said. 

"Rory." He held out his hand. "Come away with me now. Let's get out of here." 

She was stunned. Leave her mother? Leave Stars Hollow? Her home, her friends? Leave school and everything she'd worked for? Leave and go where? She looked over her shoulder. In the living room, her mother and grandmother were screaming at each other. 

She reached out, and grabbed his hand. _What am I doing?_ she thought. His hand was bigger than hers, square and strong and callused. She threw her leg over the window sill.   


  
  
"Are you thinking you made a mistake?" he asked a while later, his hands at ten and two on the wheel. They had been driving south in the dark, steadily eating up the highway. 

"Whose car is this?" she asked. The question had been on her mind for some time. 

He smiled, a typical Jess smile. "I borrowed it." 

"Oh," she said, troubled. "Does the person you borrowed it from know you took it?" 

In response he only shrugged. 

Rory hugged herself, suddenly cold. 

"What?" he said. 

She shook her head. Then she said: "I was just wishing I had a change of clothes." It was the first thing that popped into her head. "This uniform is so stupid." 

He looked her up and down. "I like it." 

"Oh," she said again, this time in a very small voice. She didn't really understand, but she had just realized that she was alone on the road with a boy, for real. It didn't matter that he was a boy she had always liked. Were they together now? What was he going to expect from her? He was more experienced than she was, and maybe kind of rough around the edges. But that was what had attracted her to him in the first place, wasn't it? She turned her head and looked out the window.   


  
  
"We need money," he said, pulling into a gas station. It had started to pour, and the rain drummed on the roof of the car. The sound was happy and cozy, but Rory was nervous and anxious. 

"What are you going to do?" she asked, imagining terrible things. She looked over at the gas station attendant. He was just a boy, not much older than the two of them. 

"After I fill up, that's almost the end of my cash. There's this guy I know. If I do something for him, he'll pay me to do it." 

"Do what?" she said suspiciously. 

"Does it matter?" he asked. He opened his door. "It'll be quick." 

"Wait!" she said. "What will I do?" 

He frowned. "You wait in the car. No matter what." He leaned over and kissed her softly, barely touching her with his tongue. It was their first kiss since Sookie's wedding. His hand skated lightly across her breast, and she stiffened. "Do you have any money?" he asked. 

"No," she said. She didn't even have a change of underwear. 

"Don't worry so much all the time," he said. "Our lives are different now." 

He pulled up his collar and ran to the payphone.   


  
  
Of course she told her mother about the kiss. In the end, she told her mother everything. But her mother had told Sookie, and that really wasn't fair. Rory had spent the entire summer with Paris in Washington, and she hadn't told her. She hadn't even told Lane, and Lane was her very best friend. Then Sookie told Jackson. That was to be expected, Rory supposed, after all, they were married. But Sookie was clumsy, it was what she was known for(besides her cooking). 

Sookie told Jackson while they were shopping for frozen pizza at Doose's Market. They were trying to be discreet; usually she made her own pizza. Sookie thought they were alone--they were at the back near the freezers--but Taylor was lurking just around the corner. Taylor was a busybody, of course he listened. Like always, Taylor got it wrong. He thought Sookie was telling her new husband that Rory and Dean had broken up. 

Taylor was infuriated. His face got red and he made a noise. He thought Jess was a bad seed; an innocent like Rory was exactly the sort of girl he'd choose to prey upon. Now Dean would mope around for months; a lovesick stock boy affected the entire market. The next morning, when Dean stopped by on the way to school to pick up his paycheck, Taylor offered his condolences. 

"What are you talking about?" Dean had asked, thinking Taylor was more off his rocker than usual. 

Even then, Taylor didn't understand his mistake. He went ahead and made things worse. "It's for the best, son," he told Dean. "If she's going to kiss other boys behind your back, you need to forget her." 

"Which boys?" Dean said dangerously.   


  
  
Rory had been in chemistry, sitting beside Paris and listening to Madeline complain about her new haircut, when she saw Dean stalk past the classroom. His profile was briefly framed in the door window, then he continued past. The bottom dropped out of her stomach. That was the moment she knew the jig was up. She was trapped; she couldn't run out of class, and even if she did, she'd only meet him in the hall. Rory was a very smart girl, but she couldn't see a way to contain this situation. She knew that whatever Dean had to say to her, she deserved it; she had betrayed him. If only he didn't have to say it now, not at Chilton, in front of all these bored, rotten, rich kids. They would never let go of it. They would find the whole situation terribly amusing. 

The door banged open. "Rory!" said Dean, and for a second she really was afraid, even though it was only Dean, and he'd never given her a reason to be scared of him. He was so tall, he couldn't stand in the doorway, he had to come into the room. 

"Dean!" said Rory, jumping to her feet. Then she had nothing else to say. There was nothing to be said. 

"What the hell is he doing here?" said Paris, looking outraged. Anything that interrupted class upset Paris. Across the isle, Madeline made a contented little noise, like a cat's purr, and settled back for some entertainment. 

"How could you?" Dean demanded, his voice breaking. "With him?" 

An awed murmur spread across the classroom, and Rory blushed. Dean was making sound like she and Jess had shared more than a kiss. Stupidly, she thought: _I guess nobody's going to call me 'Mary,' now._

"Get out of here this instant!" barked Mrs. Werner-Smith, the chemistry teacher. She had been paralyzed by Dean's amazing entrance; now, she pulled herself together. She picked up her phone. "Security!" she said. 

"Dean," said Rory. "I'm so sorry." She managed to propel herself forward, toward him. Every instinct was telling her to run away, out of his reach. She still didn't know what he was going to do. He lunged suddenly, and grabbed her upper arm. She gasped, more out of humiliation than pain. She couldn't believe she had gotten herself into this mess. "Dean!" she cried out shrilly, as he dragged her into the hallway. 

"I need security right now!" shrieked Mrs. Werner-Smith. 

"Are you people just going to sit here?" Paris demanded of her classmates, but they ignored her. They could see the hallway well enough to follow the action; the only thing that would have gotten them off their asses would have been an obstructed view. Paris ran into the hall in time to see Dean shaking Rory. Rory was pressed against the lockers. She was crying, now. To Paris, she looked pathetic. 

"I was in love with you!" Paris heard Dean yell, but she still wasn't sure if he was dangerous, or just heartbroken. Paris had always had the impression that Dean was a big, dumb dolt who was crazy-mad-in-love with Rory; she'd never thought of him as menacing. She was just making up her mind to err on the side of caution and swipe his knee, when security made the decision for her. Someone hauled on the back of her blazer, pulling her out of the way. Then they were on him. They took him down with their batons. 

"Don't hurt him!" Rory screamed, horrified. "It's not his fault!" 

"I was in love with you!" Dean screamed, as they dragged him away. "I would have done anything for you!" 

"Oh God, Dean!" Rory cried. Her knees gave way, and she slid down to sit with her back against the lockers. 

"Get up," said Paris rudely. "I'll take you to the bathroom." 

"Paris?" said Rory, tears running down her face. 

Paris was irritated to see that Rory was even prettier when she cried. "Come on!" she said. "Let's get you away from the Peanut Gallery. I'm sure someone has already called your mother." 

"My mother," Rory moaned. "She's gonna love this."   


  
  
Jess got back in the car and turned on the heater. He was all wet. He started the engine, and backed up beside the pumps, his arm flung casually over the back of her seat. Rory could smell him; he smelled musty, of damp denim. She was relieved he was just getting gas, that he wasn't robbing the station. "Did you reach your friend?" she asked. 

"My friend," he repeated, with a faint laugh. "Yeah." 

"Do you have a job?" she asked. She was feeling stupider by the second. 

"Sure," he said. "Hang on a minute." He got out of the car again, to fill the tank. 

Rory folded her hands in her lap. It's not too late, she was thinking. I can still go home, if I go right away. She looked across the lot, to the payphone. It was illuminated by a tiny light. 

Just get out of the car, she told herself. Walk to the phone, and call her. She'll be here in a flash. 

But she couldn't seem to get moving, and by the time she had almost made up her mind to do it--to leave Jess--he was back. 

"All right," he said. "We have to get a move on." 

"Jess," she said. 

"What?" he asked irritably. He was bothered because he was wet, but Rory didn't know that; she thought he was irritated with her. What if he decided to dump her? Suddenly the prospect of waiting for her mother in the rain, all alone in the middle of the night, wasn't all that appealing. I can still call her later, she thought. 

"Never mind," she said to Jess.   


  
  
She stayed in the bathroom for a long time. She sat on the floor. To her credit, Paris missed chemistry and kept her company. Paris even sat on the floor with her. She let Rory put her head on her lap and sob her guts out. "There, there," said Paris, unconvincingly. "For Pete's sake!" 

Paris wouldn't miss their next class though, they had a test. "If you miss it, you'll fail," she told Rory unhelpfully. "You'll never catch up." 

"I don't care," Rory sobbed, although normally she would have cared very much. She worked hard to keep her head above water at Chilton. 

"Your boyfriend coming by to beat you up is not the sort of thing they take into consideration," Paris said. Paris sucked at comforting. 

"He didn't beat me up!" Rory insisted. 

"News flash, Gloria Steinem," Paris said, getting to her feet. "Banging you into a locker is beating you up." 

"I deserved it," Rory said. "I kissed another guy." 

"Oh, shut up," Paris said, "you're confused." She pulled up her knee socks. "Are you coming?" 

Rory sniffed, and Paris made a face. 

"I can't go back out there," Rory said. "I can't face all those jerks." 

"But that's just it," Paris said. "They are jerks. Why do you care what they think?" 

Rory was too upset to answer, and it was too hard to explain, anyway; it was all just flashes and feelings. It was like everyone had seen her naked. She felt dangerously out of control. She felt weak and silly. She wasn't supposed to be roadkill on the highway of her own life story. 

Paris sighed. "I'll get them to tell Lorelai you're hiding in here," she said. 

"I'm not hiding!" Rory insisted, but of course she was.   


  
  
She woke up when he stopped a second time. "Where are we?" she asked, feeling dazed. 

"I thought you were sleeping," he said, in a quiet voice. 

"You were going to leave me!" she said. She was still half asleep. 

He raised his eyebrows. "Why would you think that?" 

She looked down at her hands. The truth of the matter was that she had been thinking of leaving him. 

"Rory," he said carefully. "I want you with me. I came to get you, remember?" 

She nodded. 

"I won't leave you," he promised. "Not ever." 

"Okay," she said, not sure if she could really believe that. What if another blonde caught his eye? Did he like blondes better? Or was it just that he liked fast girls, girls who knew more, girls who did more, girls who went farther than she was willing to go? 

He put his hand on her cheek, and she leaned into it, because she was scared. She wanted him to touch her, but she only wanted him to touch her as much as she wanted to be touched. Did he get that? She put her hand on his wrist, and felt something slow and dangerous turn over inside her. Her heart was suddenly very heavy in her chest, and she opened her mouth, letting out a hard breath. He slid his hand around the back of her neck, and pulled her to him. 

This kiss was the real deal. She felt it everywhere; it made her shiver. He was closer now. He was putting his hands on her, and she liked it. If it had stopped there, it would have been okay, but he was snaking his hand down her thigh, scrabbling under her skirt. She squirmed. She wasn't ready for that. She brought her knees together quickly. She put a hand on his chest, her elbow locked, to hold him back. If he wasn't willing to stop, she wasn't sure what she was going to be able to do about it. She turned her head away. Her other hand flew out and connected with the foggy passengers' window, hurting her knuckles. "Ow!" she said. She felt for the door handle, but she couldn't find it, and then she found it, but she couldn't get the door open; it was locked. She twisted, trying to reach the lock, panicking now, and breathing hard. 

"Hey," he said. "I didn't mean to scare you." She was mashed against the door, shuddering and waiting to see what was going to happen next. 

Jess slid back over to his own seat, groaning. He let out a deep breath, then ran his hands through his hair. "Arrgh," he said. He looked at her. "Rory, I'm not going to force you. It's just-" 

He broke off, and opened his own door. He got out of the car, slamming the door behind him. He stood with his back to the window, his arms crossed over his chest. Rory could see the puffs of his breath. 

He opened the door, and got back in the car, sitting sort of sideways, with his back partially to her. "I only stopped to get coffee," he said. He didn't look at her. "Can you drive for a while? I need to get some sleep."   
  


~ * ~

To be continued . . .

  



	2. 2

2. 

Her mother arrived at the school and went into a conference with the principal while Rory was examined by the nurse. Rory sat passively on an exam bed with her legs dangling, not meeting the nurse's eyes. "Does this hurt?" the nurse asked, probing. 

"No," Rory said dully. 

"Can you tell me where it hurts?" the nurse said. 

"Nothing hurts," Rory told her, shifting uncomfortably. Actually some things did hurt, but Rory wasn't going to tell the nurse that. It was none of her business. 

"I'd like to examine you properly," the nurse told her. "Why don't you get undressed?" 

"What for?" said Rory, mystified, and a little alarmed. 

The nurse sighed. "Sweetie," she said, "it's very important to document abuse cases." 

"This is not an abuse case!" Rory said, getting the first glimmer that the situation could spin badly out of control. She began to feel twitchy. Her eyes were bothering her. The atmosphere in the room was too heavy to breathe. The nurse put a hand on Rory's back, and she jumped. 

"You had a bad scare," said the nurse. "Why don't you lie down?" 

"I did not have a bad scare," said Rory. "I want to see my mother." 

"In a minute," the nurse said. 

"It's not what you think," Rory said. "You're thinking what you're thinking because you don't know what's going on. But you're wrong. I need to see my mother. She knows." 

The nurse was surprised. "Your mother knew your boyfriend was beating you up and she didn't do anything about it?" 

Rory was shocked. The nurse was thinking incorrect things. Was she going to be writing down these mistakes? Recording them somewhere official? "My boyfriend never beat me up," she said desperately. "My mother didn't know about it, because there was nothing to know. I meant that she knows what's truly going on, and you don't understand!" 

Rory realized it had been a mistake to say that. Nurses didn't like to be corrected; they were easily offended. She tried to think of something to say, to fix it, to make it better, but she was too frazzled. She had nothing. She wrung her hands helplessly.   
  
"You girls," the nurse said harshly, "you never learn." 

Rory shook her head. "No," she said. "I'm not like that." Inside, she felt like she was falling. There was nothing to grab on to; she could fall forever. She made up her mind to stop talking so much all the time. From now on, she was going to be much quieter. 

  


She lay on a cot in the infirmary, staring at the ceiling, feeling scattered. The business of the school day unfolded around her, just out of reach. She heard the other kids in the hall, changing class. They were slamming their lockers and laughing and talking, like it was any other day. She began be frustrated. Where was her mother? Why didn't she come? 

A man she'd never seen before, balding, slightly chubby, poked his head around the curtain. She propped herself up on her elbows. She saw his cheap suit. It seemed like he wanted to speak to her, but in the end, he didn't say anything. Rory pressed her lips together. She certainly wasn't going to talk to him. The nurse appeared–again!–to whisper in his ear. She took his arm, and led him away. Rory watched them go, feeling irritated. Wasn't anyone going to tell her anything? The last time she'd seen Dean, the security guards had been hitting him with batons; she wanted to know if he was okay. She didn't know who to ask. 

She didn't have the whole picture yet, but she had some of the pieces. She was getting a very bad feeling. She was beginning to think that maybe something really terrible was happening to Dean, and that wouldn't be fair. He had lost his temper, but only a bit. Maybe it had looked worse than it had really been. That was the reason she needed to find out what was going on! Everyone had the wrong idea. They seemed to think that Dean was some kind of brute, and that she was a weak girl, the kind of girl who let her boyfriend hit her. If only she hadn't cried so much. That was probably what had confused everybody. They didn't understand that these had been extraordinary circumstances. Dean would never have laid a finger on her if she hadn't kissed Jess. 

She heard the sharp click of stiletto heels, and leapt off the bed. She struggled with the curtain, and finally thrust it aside. "Mom!" she said, because Lorelai had just come into the infirmary. She ran. Her mother gathered her up in her arms. "Everything is so messed up!" Rory said, her face pressed against her mother's neck. She burst into tears. 

  


It was the middle of the night, and she was practicing her new regime of quietude in the car with Jess. Now she was driving, driving farther away from her mom and her real life, and he was the one who was sleeping. From time to time she watched him out of the corner of her eye, enjoying the way the lights from the oncoming cars played across his face. There was the broad curve of his cheekbone, and the sweet spot where his eyebrow started. She could have reached out and touched the dark shadow on his jaw, or traced her finger along his lip. It was fun to imagine touching him when he was like this. He was still and silent and somehow safe. She wanted to examine him everywhere. She let her gaze drift down his neck to his chest, to his flat stomach, to his narrow hips, and then lower. She tore her eyes away, flustered--but exhilarated. For the first time, she began to think of this ride as an adventure, rather than a failure. _It's not all over for me_, she thought. _There are lots of things I can do._   
  
Jess sighed in his sleep and shifted slightly. Rory experienced an intense feeling of tenderness. _We could see the world_, she thought, _the two of us together. We can have all sorts of exciting experiences. I could be a writer. I wouldn't have to go to Harvard to do that._

She immediately wished she hadn't let the thought of Harvard loose in her brain; that thought had been fighting to get out for hours, and she had been resolutely holding it off. The fact of Harvard, that she would be going there, that it was her next step, had been a part of her life for so long, and here she was on I-91, watching for 95 and heading absolutely in the wrong direction. _When we get to Stamford we'll switch again_, she thought, _and he can drive us across the state line_. _Jess can take us the rest of the way._

She had missed one test because of the bizarre appearance of her irate boyfriend(ex-boyfriend, she amended in her head), and that had grown into a weirdly insurmountable obstacle. She was like a horse, balking at crossing the river, it was irrational, but there it was. Cut off from her regular existence, she wasn't able to move forward. She had to go elsewhere, and that was why she was in a car with Jess, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night. 

She looked at Jess again, this time turning her head. She smiled wryly in the dark. No--that was the real reason she was here. It was all about his body. She thought about kissing him, and suddenly wanted to do it again. 

"Hey," he said sleepily, and she gasped. How long had he been watching her watching him? 

"Uh," she said. "Did you sleep?" 

He yawned. "Yeah." He grinned at her. "Some of the time." 

She turned her head away, embarrassed. 

"So," he said, filling the silence. "Read any good books lately?" 

"Uh-huh," she said. "I'm reading _The French Lieutenant's Woman_." She looked around for her book bag. Normally, she would have brought the book out, to show him. She hadn't even brought her book bag! She felt a hollowness in her stomach. She didn't have a book with her. She never went anywhere without a book. What if she got bored? 

"Ew," he said. "Why are you reading that?" 

"What's wrong with it?" she asked, slightly defensive. "I bought it for a quarter." 

"Too mannered, too Victorian," he said. "I hate all that crap." 

"It's a comment on books that are Victorian," she said, her eyes on the road. "There's the story, and then there's the other story, that's happening at the same time. It's complicated. It's neat." 

"I'm Italian," he said. 

She said, "Pardon me?" 

"It's almost the same thing as being French," he said. She realized that he was kidding her. He was being suggestive, but it was subtle. She saw him smile. 

"In the book, the French Lieutenant isn't real," she said. "He's sort of imaginary." 

"Their relationship is imaginary," he said. 

"I thought you didn't read it," she said accusingly, glancing at him. Jess sometimes told lies; he seemed to think it made life more interesting. 

"I read _The Ebony Tower_," he said, referring to a short novel by the same author, John Fowles. 

"Did you like that?" she asked. 

He shrugged. "Naked girls, all that stuff about artists and painting–what's not to like?" 

"What's not to like?" she repeated, her face hot. 

"Did you read _The Collector_?" he asked. 

"Ugh," she said, because it was a story about a man who kidnaped women. 

He laughed. "Never mind." 

They drove in silence for a while.   
  
"You know you can leave whenever you want to, right?" 

She didn't answer. 

He said: "I'm reading _The Horse's Mouth_." He pulled out a slightly damp copy, and Rory was a little miffed to see that he had a book. 

"Joyce Cary," she said. 

"Yup," he said. 

"More painting," she said. 

He opened the book and thumbed through it, holding it up to the window. There must not have been enough light to see, because he tried to open the glove box, but it was locked. He propped himself up with his shoulders against the seat, so that he could fish in his jeans pocket. Rory saw him extract a folding knife. 

"Oh, hey," she said, anxious. 

"Just a sec," he said. He used the knife to pry open the glove box, and she felt that hollowness in her stomach again. The glove compartment had a little light. He used it to look at his book. He read aloud, "'_And Jenny, of course, began to see that he'd never be satisfied. She began to feel what life was like when you live it with a man with a grievance. Like being swallowed by a very big lazy shark, who can't stop if he wants to, because his teeth all point one way, towards the dark._'" 

She looked at him. "Is that you?" she asked. 

"Who?" he said, smiling. "Jenny?" 

She made a noise. "The man with the grievance." 

"No," he said. "I like the image of the shark." 

"His teeth point towards the dark," she said. 

"That's right," he said. "I'm not the man with the grievance. I'm the man who has you." 

That sent a shiver down her spine. 

"Am I your real story?" he asked her. "Or am I the other one?" 

  


Several hours earlier, in a different car, Rory had said this to her mother: "How did Dean even find out about it? I didn't tell anybody." 

Lorelai steered around the corner. "That's the way these things are, kiddo." She was holding a cup of take-out coffee in one hand, and she took a sip. "Blah," she said. "This is the worst coffee ever! Here, hold this." She handed Rory the coffee so she'd have a hand free to roll down the window. She took back the coffee, and threw it out of the car. 

"Mom!" said Rory. 

"Whoops," said Lorelai, peering out the window. 

"Did you hit an old lady?" Rory said. 

"No," said Lorelai. "I was just remembering something." She took a deep breath. She bit her lip. "I told Sookie." 

"You told Sookie what?" Rory said hotly, already knowing the answer. 

Lorelai looked guilty. "I told her that you kissed Jess." 

Rory felt betrayed. Did everyone have to know every little thing that happened to her? Growing up in Stars Hollow, sometimes it was like she belonged to the whole town. Everyone was watching her, all the time. She put her face in her hands, and when she spoke her voice was muffled. "And Sookie told Dean?" she asked pitifully. 

"No," said Lorelai definitely. "That can't be what happened. If Sookie told Dean, I'm sure it was by accident." 

"Oh, God," Rory moaned. "Everyone is talking about me behind my back. I can't believe you did that, Mom!" 

"Sweetie, I'm sorry," said Lorelai, stricken. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I've just been so worried about this Jess kid, and what he was up to, hovering around you, waiting for his chance. I had to talk it out with somebody." 

"This Jess kid," Rory repeated. She looked at her mother. "Hovering around? I was the one who kissed him!" 

"I know," said Lorelai. "And you better believe I wish you hadn't." She ran a hand through her hair, clearly frustrated. "Hon, boys like Jess are a disaster waiting to happen. Sure, they're all brooding and romantic, but in the end, they hurt you. They get you into trouble, and they leave you holding the bag." 

Rory's head was spinning. She was so tired of this old argument. Something occurred to her. "Are you talking about what happened between you and Dad?" 

Lorelai seemed shocked. "No! My God, no. It wasn't that way with us." 

"When you say holding the bag, you're talking about getting pregnant, aren't you?" Rory said, feeling hurt. 

"I'm talking about totaling your car and breaking your arm!" Lorelai said sharply. "Stop it! You're upset and you're putting words in my mouth." She shook her head. "Okay, so I was a kid, I got pregnant, and I don't want that to happen to you. But I have never for a minute regretted having you, and that is not at all what I was talking about." Now her voice was more strident, and Rory's head was beginning to ache. 

"You have a boyfriend," Lorelai said. "You've kept him dangling all summer. He's a good kid--or he was, anyway--and he loves you." 

"Dean is a good kid!" said Rory. 

"Then you have this other boy you've been kissing in secret," Lorelai continued. 

"One kiss," said Rory, holding her head. Her mother's voice was literally pounding her skull. 

"Dean finds out, he goes nuts and gets in serious trouble, and where is Jess? The last time I saw him, he was kissing a totally different girl in the town square!" 

Rory was having trouble breathing again, and she put a hand on her chest. 

"That's what I meant by leaving you holding the bag," Lorelai said, pulling into their driveway. "That's all I was saying." 

Rory didn't know what to say. 

"I am so mad at Dean," said Lorelai. "You have no idea. Even if he started running right now, he could never run far enough. He could have hurt you Rory!" 

"No," said Rory. 

"Yes," her mother said. "These are real people. It doesn't matter if it's Dean, or Jess. They're not characters in a book. They don't come to life when you enter the room. You are never going to know how they are going to react, what they might do. You're just a girl, sweetheart." 

"I'm not!" said Rory. 

"You're just a girl," her mother said firmly. "You're young. These boys are messes of hormones and fury and you can't play around with them. You have to be serious." 

"I am serious," Rory said. 

"No," said Lorelai. "You kept Dean on the hook as your reserve boyfriend, while you waited to see what was going to happen with Jess." 

Rory shook her head wonderingly. How many men did her mother have on a string? Who did she think she was kidding? She unbuckled her seatbelt, and got out of the car. Her legs were shaky. She took a dizzy little step backward. "Mom?" She was just going to ask her mother for help, when she saw someone on their front porch. Grandma. "Oh," said Rory, feeling faint. She hung onto the car door, to steady herself. 

Grandma had been sitting in a wicker chair. She stood. Stiff, imperious and angry, she waited for them to approach. "Hang back a sec, kid," Lorelai said, "and let me run interference." She minced up the front walk. 

"Uh-huh." Rory felt so stupid and fuzzy, the last thing she wanted was to face her grandmother. She bent, and reached into the front seat for her heavy book bag. There was a sharp sound in the bushes behind her, a twig snapping, and she started. Someone grabbed her from behind, roughly sliding an arm around her waist. "Oof!" she said, as he lifted her off her feet. A heavy hand clamped across her mouth.   
  


~ * ~

To be continued . . .


	3. 3

3. 

He carried her backward through the hedge. She was so shocked that she froze; in fact, she almost peed her pants. Her eyes were wide over the sharp ridge of his hand. They started to tear up, but that wasn't because she was scared, it was because she wasn't blinking. _Good grief_, she thought. _So now I'm being kidnaped?_

What she said though, was "Mmmph!" She grabbed his wrist, digging with her fingernails. The idea that she was being kidnaped while her mother was just on the other side of the hedge was so absurd it galvanized her; she began to kick and struggle. He hissed, and dropped her. She twisted, intending to face him, but she tripped and fell on her bum, her legs splayed. She looked up, way up. It was Dean. One of his eyes was swollen nearly shut, and he had a cut lip. "Oh, Dean," she said sadly. 

He sank to his knees in front of her. She started to scoot back. He grabbed her ankle. He yanked her to him, and suddenly she was on her back on the grass, with her plaid skirt hiked up around her waist. There was nothing between them now, but a thin layer of navy blue tights, and under that, her white cotton underpants. Her panties had little red hearts on them. They matched her bra. When she had put them on that morning she had felt clean and fresh and pretty, but she had never intended to show them to the whole world. That morning, when she had gotten dressed, Dean had still been her boyfriend, and she hadn't even been planning on showing them to him. 

She reached down to straighten out her skirt. Dean did an incredible thing. He grabbed both her wrists and climbed on top of her, straddling her, a leg on either side of her waist. Now her shoulders were flat on the grass, and she was staring up at the sky. She didn't know what to do. She didn't know what he was going to do. Both her mother and her grandmother were nearby; if they would only pay attention for a second, they might notice she was missing. If she could ever find her voice, she could call them. She lay on the ground under Dean and realized she was hyperventilating; she felt sick to her stomach. 

"I'm not even allowed to be here," he said wretchedly. "Did you know that? You kiss Jess Mariano, and I'm not allowed to see you." 

Rory tried to pull her wrists away from him, but he wasn't letting go. After a few tugs, she stopped trying, and lay there trying to catch her breath. 

"You must think I'm a real jerk," he said bitterly. 

She shook her head. "Dean," she said desperately, "I don't think you're a jerk!" 

He transferred both her wrists to one hand, and squeezed her face with the other. "Don't patronize me! I was in love with you!" 

Rory lay still. She was cold inside. She didn't want to get hit, even though she felt she halfway deserved it; she was hoping that if she let him say what he wanted to say, he would get off her, and go away. She had never been hit, not ever. No one had hurt her on purpose. 

But Dean wasn't supposed to be violent. That wasn't the way that he was! He had never been a scary guy. He was always sweet to her. He hadn't felt dark and slightly illicit--not like Jess. Rory's head swam. _I did this_, she thought. _I made him be this way_. She felt ashamed, and rashly made herself a harsh promise. _If I get out of this without getting hurt, everything has to change_. 

"I wanted to see you, to talk to you," Dean was saying. "I thought if I could just see you--if I could look in your eyes--you would explain all this to me. Why did you do it Rory?" He was bent over her, with his hair hanging in his face. He looked as if he wanted to cry. "I hate that guy. He's wrong for you, Rory. Don't you get that? He's a bad guy!" 

He was holding her wrists over her head. His arm was longer than hers. Everything about him was longer; in the beginning, that had been one of the things that attracted her to him. She had loved it that he was bigger. She had liked the neat way she fit under his arm when they walked side by side. Now her shoulders were throbbing. Her back was bowed; it was starting to ache. Dean was impossibly heavy, and she couldn't get out from under him. She wanted him off of her, but she didn't want to ask. If she asked him to move, she would feel compelled to say 'please,' and that would be the same thing as admitting he was holding her prisoner. 

Rory didn't want to emphasize the fact that he was stronger than she was, that she was trapped underneath him. She didn't want to call attention to her smallness. He was holding her down, he was on top of her--he was even hurting her, a bit--but he seemed so out of it, so confused. She almost felt sorry for him. She would have tried again to apologize, but he was covering her mouth with his hand. 

"I was so in love with you. You can't know how much I loved you. You were all I thought about. I wanted to be with you forever." He started to say something else, but he stopped; it was as if he had a huge bubble blocking his throat. Rory noticed that he kept saying he had been in love with her--past tense. She had noticed that when he burst in on her at Chilton. It was as if he had already made up his mind; that for him, the decision she had been waffling over for months was already made. 

"I was arrested, Rory!" he said. "I went to see my own girlfriend, and they arrested me!" 

She turned her head, and he let his hand slip away from her mouth. "Dean, I can tell them to drop the charges!" 

"You don't get to decide that, Rory!" he said angrily. "Your school is pressing the charges! Even if the cops drop the stuff about attacking you, Chilton is still after me for trespassing!" 

"Oh," she said, shocked. She really hadn't known. "Oh, God." She looked away. The sky was faintly pink now, and the clouds were porous wisps. So Dean was a bad boy, too, now. She started to laugh. 

"Why are you laughing?" he said, sounding hurt. 

She could only shake her head. It was all so stupid. 

He let go of her arms, and she brought them down, relieved, but then he grabbed the front of her sweater. "Why are you laughing? What's so funny?" 

She made a sound, a girlish, frightened noise, and rolled on her stomach. Her arms were free, finally. She was going to try to crawl away. He grabbed her, flattening himself on top of her. Now she really couldn't breathe. "Dean," she said sharply. "No!" 

From the other side of the hedge, she heard her mother's voice. "Rory? Where are you?" 

"Rory!" That was her grandma. 

Dean got to his feet, hauling her up with him. Finally, her skirt fell back into place, and she was decently covered. He turned her around, and held her under the arms. She tried to hold him off, with her hands flat to his chest. He shoved her back against a tree. He put his hands on her face, feeling her everywhere, her cheeks, her forehead, her mouth. If he had been blind, she would have said he was trying to memorize her face. Then he kissed her. It was a hard kiss, deep and mean. She nearly choked. He cupped her face with his hand, rubbing her cheek with his thumb. "Goodbye, Rory," he said simply. He started to cry. "I loved you." He strode away, crashing through the bushes. 

"Rory!" said her mother, sounding afraid. "Rory!" 

But Rory could only stand dizzily where Dean had left her, propped up against the tree. 

  


They were almost at the state line now, and she was having a crisis of confidence. She wasn't sure she had the wherewithal to continue. Jess had made a few pointed comments about _The French Lieutenant's Woman_, and the heroine's love affair with public disgrace. He had tossed off a reference to Hester Prynne in _The Scarlet Letter_. He threw a sly, sidelong glance in Rory's direction, after which he had subsided into an uneasy slumber. Rory thought that he was dreaming; it seemed to be a bad dream, too. The sun was coming up, and he no longer seemed sexy and dangerous. Now he looked very young, and--compared to Dean--kind of small. 

She wasn't stupid, she understood what he had been intimating, before he fell asleep. He had been saying that she had built the sin of their first kiss, the one at Sookie's wedding, way out of proportion. That she had her own sick reasons, like maybe that she just wanted to let herself fall, even if it was only a little, to see what it was like. He had been saying that she was playing at being bad, that being with him was just a way of slumming. And the worst part of it was that maybe he was right. She had thought she wanted to get lost in Jess Mariano, but maybe she just wanted to lose herself for a while. 

Rory looked at herself in the rearview mirror, working her jaw as if she had indeed been hit, thinking about Dean's last kiss. In all the time they'd gone out he'd hardly touched her at all. Last night he had pinned her down. Her skirt had been bunched up around her waist! She had been defenseless and exposed. The back of her neck felt too hot, and she didn't want to drive anymore, anyway, so she pulled off the road, and into the parking lot of a diner. She leaned over and tapped Jess on the shoulder. 

He awoke suddenly, startled. He looked at her as if he had no idea who she was. He ran his hands over himself, checking, like he was making sure no one had messed with him in his sleep. Rory frowned. This was new. "What's wrong?" 

"Ugh," he said, putting his face in his hands. "I forgot where I was." 

"Where did you think you were?" she asked, concerned. 

"I just woke up," he said thickly. "I can't talk yet." 

"Okay." She crossed her arms over her chest. She looked out the window. After a few minutes, she said, "Now?" 

He sighed. "I thought I was back home." 

She was surprised. "At Luke's?" 

"At my mother's. You have no idea what it was like there. Some of the guys she used to see . . ." His voice faded away. 

"Oh," she said, disturbed. She wasn't entirely sure what he was saying, but it sounded really bad. 

"Never mind," he said sharply. "I shouldn't have said that. Where are we?" 

She turned in her seat, so she could look at him properly. "We're almost at New York." 

"Rory," he said. "We're on a schedule. We have to push through to Jersey. Why did you stop? I have to hook up with that guy." 

She didn't want to say she hadn't been able to make herself drive over the state line. "I wanted to use the restroom." 

"Okay," he said. "Be quick about it. I have to perform some surgery anyways." 

"Surgery?" she said. 

"On the car." 

"What?" she said. 

"Look," he said. "I'm not a freaking criminal mastermind, okay? But maybe if I change the plates . . ." 

She raised her eyebrows. "Change the plates?" 

He shrugged. "It might buy us some time. If I can find a car with New York plates, that would be good. So we'll blend in." 

"Oh," she said. 

"Rory," he said. "They're going to be looking for you, and they're going to be looking for this car. Soon enough, they'll put two and two together. We need a different car, but this is a truck stop, it's a bad place to find a car. Plus, it's almost daylight." 

"Okay." She hadn't thought about them looking for her. Her mom, her grandparents, maybe even her dad. How lost did she want to get? Didn't she want there to be some breadcrumbs for them to follow? She had a thought. "Jess," she said. "You're eighteen." 

"I know," said Jess. 

"I'm not." 

"I know that too," he said. "Go and use the can. Don't talk to anybody. Try not to get noticed. Hurry up." 

  


She pushed open the door to the diner. For a second she wished she'd step inside and find herself back home. She wanted to see Luke behind the counter. Luke was almost like a dad to her. She knew he would have done anything for her; all she had to do was ask. Nothing bad could ever happen to her at Luke's. She wondered if Luke was worried, if he even knew that Jess was missing. 

The man behind the counter was skinny and tired. His face had the grey cast people get when they've been up all night. Rory met his eyes, and would have smiled and nodded, but he seemed so unfriendly, she only looked away again. There was one young couple, a guy and a girl, who looked halfway normal; they were sitting at a table drinking coffee and sharing an order of toast. Everyone else seemed surly and vaguely disreputable. Rory had a strong suspicion that it wouldn't take much to get into trouble here. She didn't make eye contact with anyone. She picked her way carefully to the bathroom, watching her own feet as she walked. 

In the Ladies' she discovered two wraithlike, dirty girls, both underdressed. One was sitting languidly on a sink. The other was leaning over her, a length of rubber tube clenched in her teeth. When Rory stepped into the washroom, they both started, and made as if to hide what they were doing, but when they saw that it was just Rory--just another young girl like them--they went back about their business. 

"Ah," said Rory awkwardly, trying not to stare. "Hi." She walked into one of the stalls, stepping carefully, because the floor was wet. When she had finished, she left the stall, and went to the row of sinks. "I just want to wash my hands," she said, wondering why she felt the need to explain herself. 

One of the girls came up behind her. She had lank, pale hair, and although her lipstick had worn away, her eyes were heavily outlined. She reached out to touch the collar of Rory's uniform, and Rory flinched. 

"I guess you do real well," said the girl, meeting Rory's eyes in the mirror. 

"Huh?" said Rory, not sure what she meant. 

"But you should make it more like Britney," the girl said. 

"What?" said Rory, confused. 

"Loose the sweater," the other girl said, from her perch on the sink. She was so skinny she had hardly any breasts. Rory could see her ribs. "It don't matter if it's cold." 

The girl behind Rory made a gesture. "You know," she said. "Like, tie your shirt up, like it's a halter. Like the way she does it in the video." 

"Okay." Rory turned off the tap and shook off her hands. The girl was touching Rory's skirt now, pulling it up. "Hey!" said Rory. 

"Look," the girl said, in a sleepy, stupid voice. "She has on the wrong kind of pantyhose, too." 

Rory slapped her hand away. "Never mind my pantyhose." She slid away from the girl, toward the exit. Back in the diner, she saw that she had attracted too much attention; it was like everyone had been waiting for her to come out. She was going to have to walk a long gauntlet, between the counter and a row of tables, to get back to the door. She stood near the restroom, listening to the grill sizzle, looking at all those tired, hungry faces. For some reason the napkin dispensers caught her eye, and the salt and pepper shakers. She looked for the ketchup bottles, and the sugar. _I know diners_, she wanted to tell these people, because they seemed so strange and unkind. _I eat in a diner almost every day!_

She took a deep breath, setting her shoulders, and began to walk. No one spoke, but they all watched. She wished Jess would come in, but he was busy outside. She caught a glimpse of him, walking toward their car, hugging the front of his jacket as if he was carrying something underneath; then she lost sight of him. 

Someone tugged at her skirt, and there was a yelp of laughter. She pulled away, and kept moving forward. She was almost halfway to the door when a guy grabbed her, and pulled her onto his lap. Now there was real laughter. Humiliated, Rory struggled to get off him, to get to her feet. He wrapped his arms around her waist. "Let go of me!" she cried, her voice as high and ineffectual and afraid as a little girl's. 

"Let go of me!" a woman mimicked, perhaps glad that Rory was the center of attention, and not her. Everyone laughed, even the man who wasn't Luke, the man behind the counter. There was a wash of cold air, and a bell, and a rush of sound from the highway outside. Then: "Rory!" 

It was Jess. He was standing in the doorway. Her shoulders sagged in relief. 

The man who was holding her said to Jess: "Is she yours?" 

"She's mine," Jess said definitely, as if there could be no question in the matter. The man let go, and Rory ran to Jess. Those assembled made a small noise, as if this was only right and proper; she should belong to someone. Jess took her by the wrist--not the hand, the wrist--and opened the door. He pulled her out into the parking lot. Rory bit her lip. What had just happened? 

"There's a theme in American fiction," he said tightly, still holding her by the wrist. 

"Let go." She pulled away from him. Now she was mad at him, but she didn't know why. 

"The theme," he continued, "is that you step off the beaten track, and into some hell situation." He wrapped an arm around her waist. 

"Huh," she said, still mad, but falling into step beside him. "Very _Twilight Zone_." 

"It appears time and time again," he said. He began to whistle the 'Dueling Banjos' theme from _Deliverance_. 

"James Dickey," she said. She was good at identifying authors, if it had been a category on _Jeopardy!_, she would have gotten all the answers. "I never read the book." 

The tune he was whistling morphed into the theme from the movie _Midnight Cowboy_, which was only related to _Deliverance_ in that Angelina Jolie's father had starred in both movies. _Midnight Cowboy_ had been an X-rated movie about male prostitutes, and she shivered to think of it, remembering the girls in the bathroom. She was also thinking about the fact that when she had stepped into the diner, she had realized just how hungry she was. She ate a lot. Did Jess know how much she ate? She wasn't used to being hungry. She didn't like it. When she had stepped into that warm, steamy diner, her first thought had been: _I'd do just about anything--anything at all--for a burger and fries._

"You need another example to support your thesis," she said primly, to distract herself. 

"Nothing comes to mind," he said. "Only more movies. There are lots of movies." 

"Movies don't count," she said, reflecting that she was almost as hungry for something to read, as she was for something to eat. 

"We're almost there," he said. "I'll do my thing, we'll get our money, and then we can be on our way." He leaned down, and kissed her lightly. 

"Almost there," she repeated, wishing for a sandwich, some soup, a cup of Luke's coffee, and a thick book of essays. 

"There are no hillbillies in New York," he said. 

"There are no hillbillies in Connecticut," she said irritably, because that was one of his themes about Stars Hollow. 

"Shelby Lee Adams could photograph that diner," he said. "There are especially no hillbillies in New York." He kissed her again. 

"Good," she mumbled. "Glad to hear it."   
  


~ * ~

To be continued . . .


	4. 4

4.

After a while, Jess turned on the radio. Rory was feeling icky about what had transpired in the diner. When The Violent Femmes started up, bashing madly through 'Blister in the Sun,' she and Jess exchanged a glance. They listened with pleasure to the loud, coarse song, singing along to the best parts. The announcer came on, did a commercial for a hardware store, and made a crack about The English Beat. He cued up 'Mirror in the Bathroom.' Rory and Jess grinned at each other. They both knew the DJ was playing cuts from the soundtrack of the movie _Grosse Point Blank_ and pretending it was an original playlist. "Ha," said Jess, in a cartoonish voice, "a wise guy."

"He should have played The Velvet Underground and Peter Gabriel," said Rory.

"Yeah," said Jess. "That would have been clever. In honor of John Cusack." He spun the dial, landing on a jazz station. A Miles Davis recording, 'Sketches of Spain,' was playing. The eerie castanets clacked under the fine, high trumpet. Jess turned down the volume.

"Jess," said Rory quickly. "I'm really hungry. If I don't eat soon, I'm gonna be sick." She hated to say it. She was already feeling totally dependent on him. If he hadn't intervened back at the diner, she would never have been able to extricate herself. She just hadn't understood those people, what they wanted, what they were about.

"If there's nothing in your stomach, how can you be sick?" Jess asked.

"I don't know," said Rory. "I guess I'm all backwards."

"Do you feel sick now?" Jess asked.

"Getting there," Rory replied.

"Okay." He looked over his shoulder, and sped up to pass a car. Rory liked the way he drove. It was the way she imagined a European person would drive. He accelerated and decelerated very quickly. She thought it was cool.

"I don't have any money at all," Rory said. "I don't have anything."

"I know," he said.

"I didn't even bring my bag," she said.

"We sort of left in a hurry."

"Yeah," said Rory.

"But - I have a present for you."

"Oh," said Rory, pleased. She made a joke, "You shouldn't have."

"That's what they keep telling me." Jess reached under his seat and pulled out two books. He handed them to her.

"Just what I always wanted!" She looked at the titles, smiling. The first was a thin, orange and white book of James Joyce poems, called, _Poems Peny-each_. The second book was _Winesburg, Ohio_, by Sherwood Anderson. They were both secondhand, and well worn. She flipped open the Anderson. Inside the front cover a girl's name was written in a cool, feminine hand. Tanya Kilpatrick. She wrinkled her nose. Tanya Kilpatrick. She flipped open the other book and there it was. It had belonged to Tanya Kilpatrick as well. "Is there anything you want to tell me?" she asked Jess.

"You sure do look pretty today, Miss Rory," he said with a lopsided grin.

"Stop it," she said, blushing.

"We have a little bit of money now, too," Jess said.

"Swell. And this all came from the license plate store?"

"Could be," Jess said. "Don't you like your present?"

"Sure," said Rory sourly.

"Then say 'thank you.'" He was looking at her sternly, and Rory couldn't tell if he was kidding. Her heart bounced inside her rib cage.

"Thank you," she said reluctantly, feeling resentful and wondering what would happen if she refused to say the words. She couldn't look at him, so she looked straight ahead at the road, feeling as if her face was on fire. She was worried. Back in the diner, he had told everyone she belonged to him. She had thought that was just to get her out of a sticky situation. What if he really believed it? Jess was such a wild card, she didn't know if she could ever feel that he belonged to her. If he owned her, but she didn't own him back, what would that mean?

"Read me a poem," he demanded.

She didn't want to. "I thought you didn't like poetry."

"We're talking about James Joyce," he said, and she couldn't argue with that. She paged through the book looking for a short one. Then she got lost in the words, and started looking for a good one. She leaned back in her seat, a knee propped against the dash. Her school skirt pooled in her lap. She found a poem that she liked called "Alone." Rory cleared her throat and read it aloud. The last line of the poem was the phrase, "a swoon of shame," and when Rory got to it she had to push the words past a strange blockage in her throat.

Jess snorted, lifting his chin to look in the rear view mirror. "'A swoon of shame,' huh?"

"Yup," she said, looking out the window.

"Oh, Rory," Jess said, flexing his shoulders.

"What?"

"I bet you saw the word 'shame' at the bottom of the page and it called to you like a beacon."

"It did not!" As a matter of fact, it had been the whole sentence, 'A swoon of shame,' that called to her. It expressed the way she had been feeling ever since Dean had grabbed her at Chilton.

Jess looked again in the rear view mirror, then glanced over his shoulder. Rory looked too, but she didn't see anything out of the ordinary.

"Huh," said Jess, seeming distracted.

"What?" said Rory.

"Nothing. At least, I don't think so." He turned his attention to her. "You were thinking about that lunkhead when you picked the poem."

"Who?" she asked, knowing full well whom he meant.

He made a gesture with his hand, slicing the air over his head, as if to describe someone very tall. "The walking right angle."

"Quit it," she said.

"When we stop to buy food, I'll get you a scarlet letter."

"Knock it off!" she said.

"You know you want one. Or maybe we could just brand you." He brushed her cheek with the tips of his fingers. "Then the stain would never wash away."

Rory slapped his hand, harder than she meant to. He put out his arm, the same way a mom would if she stopped short, to keep her kid in his seat. Jess was doing it to pin her arms. "Stop it!" She wriggled angrily. She realized something. "That's about you being insecure!" she said without thinking, without considering whether it might make him angry, and what that might mean for her. "If I wanted to be with someone who was insecure, I could have stayed with Dean, and let him kidnap me in the bushes!"

"What?" he said sharply. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing," she said, ashamed. All of a sudden she felt like crying.

"Rory," he said. "Did he hurt you because of me?"

"He hurt me because of me!" she said hotly. "I was the one who did it! I kissed you! You were just standing there!"

"I wanted to be kissed," he said.

She was silent.

"What did he do?"

"It doesn't matter," she said. "It wasn't anything."

"I want to know!" he said.

"Too bad."

"Jesus," he said angrily. He drove on, fuming. Rory huddled in her seat, feeling miserable. She wished she had been able to keep her mouth shut.

"Meshes," he said, out of the blue.

"What?" Her stomach was starting to feel really bad.

"You don't run across the word 'meshes' all that often. It caught my attention."

"It is uncommon," said Rory.

"It made me think of the film _Meshes of the Afternoon_, Jess said. "The way that poem used the word 'meshes' just added a whole new layer of meaning to the film for me."

"I never heard of it," said Rory.

"It's an independent film from1943," he said."Very weird and beautiful. It's by this avant-garde film maker called Maya Deren. She acts in the movie, actually. You'd love her. She traveled around showing her own work; it wasn't exactly stuff you'd ever see in the theater. But you'd have to live in a real town to see it," he said. "I saw it at an NYU screening. They don't show that kind of thing on Nick at Nite."

"Maya Deren," she said. She had calmed down, some. Jess knew things about women, female writers, film makers, and painters. It gave her an awfully funny feeling. His knowledge elevated the level of the discussion, sure, but it also charged the atmosphere, made it electric; it was as if by extension he knew her, and that made her feel raw and naked. Unlike other boys, he wasn't afraid, or disdainful, or crude about girls. Here was a boy who had read Jane Austin, apparently without a gun to his head. Rory's nostrils flared, and she breathed deep the heady scent of him. _I'm almost ready_, she thought. _Can he wait a little longer? If he asks me to do it, and the time is right, I think I'll say yes._

"Read something from _Winesburg_," he said.

"Not just now," she said quickly. She tucked the book in the glove compartment. She didn't want to read from a book of short stories about a little town populated by interesting characters.

"Okay," he said. "But read something."

She opened the Joyce and read a poem called _ 'A Flower given to my Daughter.' _When she was done,Rory looked up from the book feeling calm and full of grace, the way she always did when she read something pretty.

"Hah!" he said, spoiling the mood. "That's you."

"It is not!"

"Rosefrail and fair," he said, quoting a line in the poem.

"No," she said. Did he really think she was frail?

"Whose soul is sere and paler, than time's--what? What is it?"

"Knock it off," she said, not liking the way he was using the elegant phrases to tease her. A moment ago, she had been thinking about having sex with him, letting him be her first. Now, she was irritated. She decided it would be a cold day in hell before he got to touch her in that way. _Ha-ha_, she thought. _You're not as smart as you think you are, Jess Mariano_.

"What's the line?" he said.

"Time's wan wave!" she said, feeling grouchy.

He grinned at her. She folded her arms over her chest.

"Dammit!" he said, suddenly, looking at the rear view mirror. "That guy behind us is coming up really fast!"

-

Her mother and grandmother had found her standing by the tree. They were upset, and their fear made their voices painfully sharp. "What the hell happened?" her mother demanded, but Rory couldn't talk. She opened and closed her mouth like a fish. Dean was gone, and she was fine, but the idea that someone could snatch her--just pick her up and carry her away--was finally sinking in.

"She's going to faint," her grandmother said, and Rory shook her head. She wanted to protest that she wasn't the fainting type.

The next thing she knew, she had lost some time. She was lying on the living room couch with a soppy wet washcloth over her eyes. Her grandmother was on the phone. She was trying to get a hold of her lawyer. She belittled the receptionist and made cutting asides to Rory's mother. Lorelai made snarky, semi-hysterical remarks back, and in general the tone of the room was strident and out of control. The only thing the two women seemed to be in agreement on was that Dean was to be hunted down, preferably with pitchforks and torches, captured, tortured, and eventually shipped off to an iceberg.

The front door banged open, and Rory sat up, frightened. She was out of it, and thinking dark thoughts. What if Dean hadn't gone away? What if he came back and did something bad to her, or worse, to her mother? She wasn't sure she could ever feel safe again. Sookie came into the living room, saying, "It's my fault, it's my fault," adding to the confusion. She was followed by Jackson. Rory eyed him warily. Even though Jackson was soft and tubby and kind, she didn't want him near her. She sat up and tried to make herself small.

Lorelai sat on the couch beside her, rubbing her back. The adults were talking around her, over her head, and Rory wished they would shut up. She wished someone would give her a baseball bat. The front door opened again, and she looked over her shoulder, worriedly. It was Luke.

He knelt in front of Rory, and his presence wasn't troubling, the way Jackson's was; she was glad that he was there. "What do you want, Rory?" he asked her. "What do you want me to do?"

He was the first one who had asked her that. She leaned forward. "Luke," she said, in a voice that sounded to her own ears like it was coming from very far away, "I don't feel well. I don't feel well at all."

"Of course not," he said. "Lorelai, she doesn't feel well."

"Oh, honey," her mom said. "Come on. You should go to bed." Luke and her mother helped her stand. Lorelai put an arm around her shoulders, and led her to the bedroom.

"I don't want you to think about this any more tonight." Lorelai got out a pair of Rory's pajamas. "Get changed and crawl into bed. Do you want something to eat?"

"No," said Rory.

"Do you want me to stay in here with you?"

"No," Rory said. She wanted to be alone. She needed to extract the events of the day and examine them in private, where no one could see her face.

"Okay," said her mom. She paused in the doorway. "We're going to take care of this, Rory. You don't have to worry about it at all."

"All right," said Rory, wishing her mother would go. She wasn't sure how much longer she could stand there, pretending she was keeping it together.

Lorelai left. A moment later, Rory heard her voice, and then her grandmother's. She went quickly to her door, and shut it. She stood with her forehead against the door, listening to them yell and feeling awful. Rory had always been a quiet girl, a shy girl, the girl in the background. Now, she felt illuminated by a hot white light. There were no shadows. Everyone could see her. They could see all of her, her private thoughts and feelings, and she hated it; she wanted to hide. She knelt, because she could actually feel the world spinning under her feet. Then she lay on the floor. She had never done that before, but it seemed like a good idea to be low to the ground. She wondered how much trouble Dean was in. Was he ruined now? Was there a way to fix all this mess? And what about school? Could she ever go back there? She had missed a whole day, and right now she was feeling like she'd never be able to catch up to the others. _This is the stupidest thing that ever happened to me_, she thought bleakly. _I don't want to be part of it anymore_!

There was a soft sound at her window, tap, tap, tap, and she sat up, startled. Someone was there.

~ * ~

To be continued . . .


	5. 5

5. 

Rory heard the whine of an engine going all out, and another, oddly old fashioned sound; it made her think of an outboard motor. She didn't know cars. Dean would have been able to tell her that the loud droning was the sound of a glasspack muffler, but she wasn't with Dean, who up until very recently had been open and friendly and indulgent. Jess had offered her his hand, and she had taken it; she had clambered out her bedroom window. Together they had sidestepped into the fringes, and now a restored '52 Chevy was about to tag their bumper. Rory was able to pick out the sound of tires against the pavement. The grey two-door sedan came up on their tail like a creature from a horror movie, relentless and unreasonable. She turned to look, her mouth open. The seatbelt cut into her hip. 

"Turn around," Jess snapped. "Face forward!" 

"But what's he doing?" Rory said. "What does he want?" In the other car, she could see a head swiveling back and forth, as if the driver was looking at something on the seat beside him and comparing it to their car. 

Jess sped up the car. He seemed to be in a zone of very tight focus. His brow was furrowed, and he was intent on the road ahead. "Ask me a question I know the answer to," he said distantly. He cut his eyes to the side. "I told you to turn around," he said again, and she did. "He's going to try and pass us." Strangely, Jess was smiling. He pulled slightly to the left. 

"What are you doing?" Rory said, alarmed. 

"Quiet." Jess sawed on the wheel, and the car settled back in their own lane. He hit the gas, and they shot forward. 

Again, the sedan pulled up tight, and Jess laughed. The Chevy tapped their bumper, and Rory's teeth came together with a chomp. 

"Ow!" she said, rubbing her jaw. She was afraid she was going to bite her tongue. "Let him pass!" 

"Actually," Jess said, "I don't think he just wants to pass." He edged into the other lane, just enough to keep the guy from pulling up alongside. 

Rory wanted to scream, but she wouldn't allow herself to do that. She put her hands over her mouth, just to make sure. She didn't want to look at Jess; he was making her be afraid of him. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that his color was high and that his eyes were flashing. They were on a two-lane stretch, and he was occupying both lanes. He was holding the other driver at bay. He seemed to be enjoying himself. 

"Please stop," she said, her hands muffling the words. 

Jess laughed. "Are you serious? Don't you know what's going on?" 

"No," she moaned. She put her head in her lap. 

"Are you gonna throw up?" he said. 

"Maybe," Rory said. She put her arms over her head. 

Jess laughed again. "Rosefrail and fair," he said. "Hang in there." 

Rory was in perfect crash position; if she'd been in an airplane, the flight attendant would have told her to keep on doing what she was doing. She wasn't sure, however, if she was in the right position for a car crash. She'd been in a crash recently, and experience had shown her that there really was no good car crash position. She lifted her head. "Oh my God!" she said. Jess had allowed the sedan to pull out, finally. The other car was in the left lane, going the wrong way and keeping pace with them. Rory looked past Jess and caught a glimpse of the other driver. She saw him in pieces; she wouldn't be able to remember him later. He was in his late thirties. He had a narrow, rough face. He had blond hair. A high forehead. A long nose. Mainly, she saw his brown leather jacket. It was his jacket she noticed, that and the way he was looking at her. She met his gaze. "What do you want?" she said to him, feeling suspended in time. His window was closed, and so was theirs, it was still very early, and kind of cold. Nevertheless, he seemed to hear her, or at least understand. He looked right at her. 

"You," he mouthed. He pointed at her. 

"Jess!" she said, frightened. 

"I know." He waved at the man, smiled, and pointed to the road. There was a transport truck in the other guy's lane, bearing down fast. "Ha!" Jess said. Rory leaned back against the headrest. Whatever was coming next was beyond her control. The man sped up, as if to pass, but Jess matched him. He slowed, and Jess did, too. The truck honked its horn, a double foghorn blast. An image flashed through Rory's mind: little kids standing by the road in Stars Hollow, waving at passing trucks and making the 'honk your horn' gesture, their fat little arms raised and bent at the elbow, their tiny fists pulling the air. She closed her eyes. 

The man in the grey sedan had no choice; with squealing tires spitting gravel, he pulled untidily off on the left shoulder. At the same moment, as the truck was passing, Jess hit the gas. Rory opened her eyes, just a slit. Everything outside was a blur. The sound of the engine was all-encompassing; her ears were full of it. She focused on the speedometer. She watched the little arm climb. She and Jess were going so fast they could have been standing still. They were everywhere and nowhere at once. They were in their own private capsule of time, and there was nothing but the fragile arm of the speedometer to keep track of just how fast they were going. 

  


Jess made a hard left off 95, cutting off a station wagon, and pulled into Mamaroneck. "Dammit," he said, rubbing his head. "We don't have time for this. We have to get to Bayonne, or there's gonna be hell to pay." 

Rory was hugging herself. She felt cold all over. "Why?" 

"I have to pick something up," he replied. "That's the job I got, remember? So we could have some cash." 

She looked at him. "Pick up what?" 

"Nothing," said Jess. "That's not important. I'm going to get a thing from one guy, and deliver it to this other guy in Asbury Park." 

"As in 'Greetings from?'" Rory asked. 

"Yup," he said. "Then I'll buy you a postcard." 

"I think I need to know what you're picking up." She was worried. She was starting to see a side of the world she hadn't really known existed. She already felt covered in a thin layer of slime. She didn't want to get any dirtier. 

"Once again," he said, "that's not important. What is important is that we need cash, and we need it, like, now." 

Rory bit her lip. She didn't like the fact that he was unwilling to tell her what he was up to. It was probably bad, and illegal to boot; the prisons were full of women who just happened to be in the vicinity when their boyfriends committed a crime. _Boyfriends_, she thought. "Jess--" she started, but he cut her off. 

"Don't ask me again, Rory. I promise you it's not that bad. It's just a thing I'm going to do, and then it'll be done. We'll have a little money, and we can go wherever we want, and start fresh." 

"Not drugs," she said tentatively, thinking of those pitiful girls back in the diner. 

He barely hesitated. "Not drugs." He grinned at her. "Let's grab you something to eat, okay? You'll feel better." He pulled into the parking lot of a freestanding 7-Eleven. The convenience store was a bright neon oasis in the early morning mist. "I'll go," he said. "You wait here. Don't get out of the car." 

She grabbed his arm. "Jess, who was that guy? What did he want?" 

He sighed. "Rory, that guy followed us from the diner. I thought I saw him, but he was hanging back, tailing us. He pulled into their parking lot just when I went in to get you." 

She was frustrated. "But, what did he want?" 

"He wanted to take you away from me," he said. "I don't know-maybe he was a perv, or something. He was a weirdo in a classic car." 

She shook her head. "That's ridiculous. Anybody can see I'm with you. How could he think he could just take me?" 

He laughed. "You're out of the magic circle now, baby. This is the real world." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" she said sullenly. 

"How many people have tried to kidnap you in the last twenty-four hours?" he said. "Not including me." 

"Pardon?" 

"Well," he said. "Technically I did kidnap you, didn't I?" 

"No!" 

"Oh," he said, "I bet Lorelai would have a different take on that. A take that includes statutory rape, perhaps." 

"She would never do that," Rory said, wishing he hadn't said the word 'rape.' "Never ever. Anyway, I would just say I went with you willingly." 

"That's the whole thing with statutory issues. You don't get a say in the matter." He looked her up and down, giving her that look that made her want to shiver. She knew his thoughts had turned to other things. He touched her hair. "It's just like all the other things you don't get a say in, being a girl." He drew his finger softly along her cheek, stopping at her lips. "You're young, Rory," he said, "and God--you're so pretty." 

She did shiver then, when he called her pretty. At that moment, even though he was describing all the limits on her freedom, she would have done anything for him. She would have done anything he wanted her to do. 

"So there's me," he said in a low voice. "I kidnaped you. Then there was that guy who grabbed you in the diner." His hand was on her neck now. She arched her back. He slid a little closer. She took his other hand, entwining his fingers with her own. 

"That guy at the diner," she said, a little breathlessly, "was less a kidnap attempt, than a sort of mauling." She shuddered, and Jess took the opportunity to slide closer. He put both arms around her waist, and hugged her from behind. She leaned back into him. He was so solid, so substantial, it was amazing to feel the length of him behind her. He pulled her hair away from her neck, nuzzling her. She felt a darting tongue taste the delicate pulse under her ear. She made a noise, and he bit her soft skin. She stiffened, gasping. She was sideways in her seat, her back flat to his chest. An arm on either side of her rib cage, with his chin tucked into her shoulder, he began unbuttoning her sweater. He slid it partway down her arms. Crazily, she wished they could climb into the back seat. She wanted to lie down with him. She was aware that her skirt had gotten hiked up, and that she was showing a lot of thigh. She thought: _I guess I've changed my mind._

"So, with the guy in the diner, and the crazy guy in the Chevy, that's two people who've tried to kidnap you, today." He was unbuttoning her shirt. Her arms rested on top of his, like little bird wings. She didn't try to stop him. She wasn't sure she could. Rory's breath was uneven now, and she was shaking. She had never let a boy go so far. He pulled her shirt out of her waistband. He cupped her breasts with his hands. 

"Excuse me, Miss," he said in her ear. "Have you got yet another layer under there?" 

She grabbed his wrists, embarrassed. "My slip," she said. "That's my slip." 

"A slip," he said. "Wow." 

She shrugged away from him, feeling shy. "My summer weight skirt sticks up at the back unless I wear a slip," she said, discomposed and sharing too much. 

"Very ladylike," he said. 

"Stop it," she said, pulling her shirt closed. 

"Rory," he said. "Come back to me." 

She turned on her hip, and looked out the window, feeling like she wanted to cry. She was afraid to say anything. 

"Rory," he said. When she didn't answer, he sighed. He tugged her sweater up so that it was back on her shoulders, and not bunched around her elbows. "Okay. I shouldn't be feeling you up in a parking lot, anyhow." He rubbed her back. "Listen, do you think Lorelai knows you're gone yet?" 

"I don't know," Rory said dully. "It's early." 

"Yeah," he said. "Oh well--look on the bright side. Maybe they think Dean was the one who kidnaped you." 

She looked sharply over her shoulder. "Oh, no. That would be bad." 

"Why?" 

"I just-I don't-I wouldn't want that to be the case," said Rory. "That would be wrong." 

Jess looked angry. "That guy did whatever he did to you, and you still care what happens to him?" 

"He didn't do anything!" Rory said. "Don't you understand that I was the one who hurt him?" 

"Yes," Jess spat. "I know what's it's like to be hurt by you." 

"Jess," she said helplessly. Just like that, they were again at some dizzying impasse. Rory was upset and bewildered. She thought: _Why do they get like this? Why do these boys get so mad and jealous? I can't stand it!_

"Dean was so obsessive and possessive," Jess said angrily. "I was afraid he was going to really hurt you. I thought he was a murder-suicide waiting to happen." 

"What?" said Rory, horrified. 

"That's why I took you out of there!" he said. "You had to get away." 

"Jess," she said carefully, "I'm not sure the situation was that desperate. I think maybe you overreacted." 

"Why did you come with me, then?" demanded Jess. "If you weren't afraid?" 

"I was afraid," she admitted. "I don't know of what. And I felt bad." She looked at him. "And I wanted you." 

"Oh Rory." He put his hand on her cheek. "You're like a little girl. You don't know what you want." 

"I do so know what I want," she said, meeting his eyes. 

He shook his head. "Button up. I'll get you something to eat. And please keep in mind that in recent memory, three different guys have tried to steal you. Do not get out of the car." 

  


Of course the first thing she did was get out of the car. There was nobody around. The morning air was damp and chilly, but she gulped it greedily. It was different air than the air she was used to--not as fresh--but she was in a new place, and she wanted to smell everything. She buttoned up her shirt and tucked it back in her skirt. Once again, she wished for clean underwear. She wrapped her arms around herself, dancing in place to get warm. She watched Jess through the big front window of the 7-Eleven. He was meandering casually around the store. She saw him stop at a display of cakes and Twinkies. "Oh yes, please," she said out loud. 

She saw him lift his head. He was talking to the clerk. The clerk was a big kid with glasses and strawberry blond hair. Jess grinned at him; Rory knew he was trying to ingratiate himself. Jess had the ability to be friendly, on the rare occasions when the mood struck him. Jess was making a big show of looking for something. He said something else to the clerk, who shrugged. The clerk circled the counter, to join Jess at the display. Jess talked animatedly, with seeming sunny good nature. The clerk shrugged again, and headed to the back of the store. Rory watched him go into the storage room. Jess stepped off to the side, and she tried to follow what he was doing, but a promotional poster for Vanilla Coke was blocking her view. 

It was the glasspack muffler that she recognized, even though she didn't know that was what it was called. The sound made her think of a cartoon character giving a raspberry. She spun on her heel, her stomach seizing in fear. 

"Oh no," she said. She craned her neck and watched the bizarre 1950's car drive slowly past. She felt menaced by that car. The driver was dangerous. She dropped into a crouch beside the wheel well. "Go away, go away," she muttered, thinking to herself that she was a coward. Whenever anything bad happened, she wanted Jess. That had been her first thought. She didn't know what to do all by herself. She would have called out to him, but there was no way he could hear her. He was deep in the brightly lit store. Anyone could look in the window, and see that's where he was. He was in the 7-Eleven, and she was out in the parking lot, all alone. She heard a car pull into the lot, and like an ostrich, closed her eyes. Later, she would remember that. She didn't get into her own car, and lock all the doors. She didn't run into the store. She would remember squatting beside their stolen car, and her face would burn with shame. 

She heard a new noise, the electronic bell that sounded whenever the 7-Eleven door opened. She heard Jess say, "Don't worry about it, I've changed my mind." She opened her eyes. There was a car parked in front of the store, parallel to the window. It wasn't the weird guy's car. It was a red Honda Civic. An older guy got out. He was wearing a navy suit, with a Princeton tie. He had salt and pepper hair, and a trim little beard. He looked at Rory curiously, then to her relief, dismissed her. But when he saw Jess coming out of the store, he stopped short. He paused, saying something to Jess in a low voice. 

Very clearly, she heard Jess say, "Pardon me?" Jess was smiling slightly, and leaning forward, as if the older man was asking him directions. The man said something else, and Jess recoiled. "Get away from me," he said. The man shrugged, and went into the 7-Eleven. Rory stood up. Jess strode over to the car, looking very put out. "Didn't I tell you to wait in the car?" he snapped. 

"What was that about?" said Rory. 

"Pretty girls aren't the only people who get harassed." 

"Oh," said Rory, not getting it. Then she did get it. "Oh!" 

Jess made a face. "Never mind. We're in a hurry." He opened her door, and she sat down. She drew in her legs, and he shut the door after her. He went around to the driver's side, and climbed in, slamming his own door. "What were you doing, anyways?" he asked. "Are you sick?" 

"No," she said. She looked around, but she couldn't see the Chevy anywhere. She wasn't sure whether or not to tell him. She didn't want to get into another drag race. 

Jess peeled out of the 7-Eleven parking lot. "We need a new car," he said. 

"Uh-huh," she said. "What did that guy say to you?" 

"He asked if I wanted to make some money," he replied. "It happens all the time." 

"Oh my God," she breathed. 

He laughed. "I try not to let it ruin my day. Look. I got you all kinds of tasty treats." He started pulling snack food out of his pockets. There were flattened little cakes, a couple of candy bars, two tooth brushes, some toothpaste, a bottle of water, and an orange juice. "That's for me," he said, taking back the orange juice. He felt around in another pocket. "This is for you." He handed her a Jolt Cola. 

"Most excellent," she said, opening the can. 

He looked at her, concerned. "At least eat a coffee cake before you drink that. It could burn a hole right through your stomach." 

Now it was her turn to laugh. "Clearly, you haven't been paying attention." She took a sip. She tucked the can between her thighs, and tore into one of the cakes. "Why's everything so smooshed?" she asked, her mouth full. 

"I'm saving the book girl's money for gas." 

"Uh-huh," she said. "Tanya Kilpatrick." 

"So I was artful," he said. "And dodger-y" 

"Oh," she said. 

"Yeah," said Jess. "I didn't like screwing over the clerk though, he seemed like a good guy." 

"There are no victimless crimes," said Rory, and she was only half kidding. Her mouth was dry, and she was having trouble swallowing. The whole stealing thing would take some getting used to. They were in a car that was stolen, with licence plates that were stolen from a different car, reading to each other from books that were also stolen. Jess had a pocketful of stolen cash, and now they were eating stolen food. In a little while, she'd brush her teeth with a stolen toothbrush, and be glad to have it. "I was thinking," she said around a mouth of coffee cake, "maybe you shouldn't get different plates, when you pick out the new car." 

He looked at her, amused. "Why is that?" 

"If, for whatever reason, the police call in our plates, they'll come back as belonging to a different car, right?" she said. "They'll see right away that they're the wrong plates." 

Jess smiled. "I wouldn't know. I told you I wasn't a criminal mastermind." 

"I saw the weird guy," she said. "He drove right past me." 

"Here?" he said, alarmed. "Here in Mamaroneck?" 

She nodded. 

"Oh hell," he said. "I was counting on getting another car while it was still early. Now we have to get out of here." He looked at her. "Why didn't you tell me right away?" 

"I just told you right now," she said defensively. She looked over her shoulder. "Where is he?" she said to herself. "What does he want?" 

He stepped on the gas. "Something not good. How the hell do I get back to 95? Could they make it any more confusing?" Jess was starting to sound irritable. "Dammit!" he said, and Rory shied away. From her own small fragment of the front seat she watched him out of the corner of her eye. She looked at his square hands on the steering wheel, and imagined those hands touching her breasts. She shifted uneasily in her seat. She took a sip of her soda. She couldn't eat anymore. It had been a while since she had eaten, and her stomach seemed to have shrunken; she was going to be sick if she didn't get something in it, but she couldn't figure out how to go about doing that. 

"Crap," Jess said, and Rory knew he was lost. She sighed. In her limited experience with boys, Rory knew that they hated to be lost, it upset them. Now there was nothing to do but wait for Jess to become un-lost. There would be no map reading, or asking of directions. There would be no navigating by the sun or the stars, or even reading of street signs. Only endless circling, while he became more and more irritated and took it out on her. 

"Look in the glove compartment for some kind of map," he said, surprising the hell out her. "Otherwise I'm gonna have to stop and ask somebody." 

"Okay," she said. She was totally blown away. _I think I'm in love with him_, she thought.   
  


~ * ~

To be continued . . .

  



	6. 6

6.

They made good time to the outskirts of Bayonne, once they found their way. They drove through a deserted, semi-industrial area. They passed vast, overgrown fields of rippling grasses and wild flowers. Here and there were decrepit structures, the shells of abandoned factories, tumbledown barns, rotted out houses. From time to time, Rory saw large storage tanks or even rusted vehicles.

Jess was looking for a particular address. It was warmer in the car and Rory had taken off her sweater. She undid her cuffs and rolled up her sleeves. She had misplaced her tie. She thought maybe Jess had taken it off back at the 7-Eleven. She didn't care. Soon Jess would buy her some new clothes and Chilton would be a thing of the past. She and Jess would be bohemian bums, traveling whichever way the wind blew. Jess may prefer Kerouac or Hemingway, or even Palahniuk, but in her fantasy he wrote like Steinbeck. Rory would write too, and her writing would be witty and incisive. She would revamp the structure of the modern novel, while remaining popular and accessible. Then again, perhaps they'd be travelers like Port and Kit Moresby. There were so many options!

Jess was in rare good spirits, laughing and teasing her. Rory thought that maybe he was on a chocolate high. "I heard you came out," he was saying. "Does that mean there's no hope for me?" They had just passed a big billboard with a picture of the flag and the slogan: 'God Bless America.'

"Stop it," she said. "I only did it to make my grandma happy."

"Don't you go to an all-girl school?" he asked in a suspicious voice.

She laughed. "You know I don't."

"What about that blonde girl? Is she your girlfriend?"

"Paris?" said Rory. "Well, we kissed. But only once."

"Tell me _all_ about it."

Rory hit him on the arm. "Hah-hah. You're a real riot."

"So," he said. "You're a deb."

"Not really. I was faking it."

"How did they dress you up?"

"A white gown," she said. "And I had some feathers."

"Feathers?"

"Oh, you know," she said airily. "To wave around."

"Ah." Jess nodded. "The arcane rituals of High Society."

"It's a meat market," Rory said. "Here are the virgins. Please marry them." She bit her lip, color flooding her cheeks. Jess glanced at her and smiled a crooked smile.

"I had my portrait painted once too," she said, to change the subject.

"Well, that's just swell. One time, I went to a photo booth at Coney Island." He turned on the radio. In a weary, plaintive voice Elvis Costello was singing about sticky valentines.

Rory heard the sound of the Chevy over the radio. She didn't have time to warn him, and Jess didn't have time to react. With squealing tires, the Chevy pulled up, boxing them in. There was nowhere to go when the other car sliced sharply in front, cutting them off and forcing Jess to pull quickly over to the gravel shoulder. Their car wasn't moving, but Rory still was, she was weightless. Her seat belt caught, and she snapped back, suddenly very heavy and breathless. "Oh, God," Jess said. "Are you okay?"

Rory wheezed. The wind had been knocked right out of her.

"Rory!" said Jess, sounding alarmed. "Are you all right?"

She nodded. "Yeah," she said shakily. "You?" She heard a slam and looked up to see the crazy blond guy. He had gotten out of his car and was coming toward them. "Jess!"

"This is too much. Stay here!" He disengaged his seat belt and threw open the door. He slid out of the car and strode forward to intercept the scary guy.

Rory sat stiffly in her seat with her knees together and both hands covering her nose and mouth. She didn't feel able to move—she was too freaked out. Her chest hurt. She thought that maybe she had a burn or a bruise running diagonally across her torso where the seat belt had held her. It was lucky she'd been wearing it when the Chevy forced them off the road.

Through the windshield, she observed the events as they unfolded. It was like a drive-in movie staring someone she knew. Jess blocked the blond guy, standing in front of him. Her level of apprehension was steadily mounting. Rory saw that the weird guy was a great deal bigger than Jess. He was taller and more muscular. The fact that Jess was angry was evident in every gesture he made. He seemed ready to snap. Elvis Costello was crooning: '_Oh, Alison . . .'_ and Rory's head was spinning. With horror, she realized Jess was just a kid standing in front of a big, mean guy. He was like a cardboard cutout, and Rory could see the older man around Jess's outline on every side; in fact, he looked over Jess' head, and met her gaze with steely eyes.

That was when Jess hit him. This is how it happened: Jess took a step to the side, widening his stance. He was crouching a little, as if he was going to straddle a chair. He pivoted and threw a jab right into the guy's gut. Rory drew in a sharp breath. She felt slightly queasy, but strangely, she also felt flushed and kind of sexy. There was a tug in her belly, like a braided cord connecting her to Jess. She didn't understand why she felt that way. She only knew that she wanted Jess to be the kind of guy who could handle himself in a fight. When the blond man doubled over, grabbing his stomach, Jess struck him again with an uppercut. It was a good, clean punch to the jaw, and the guy twisted and fell back against his car. Jess shrugged. He turned to rejoin Rory.

"Jess!" she screamed, because the other guy was getting to his feet. Jess whipped around, but he was surprised and unprepared. Rearing like a snake, the man wound up and connected sharply with the side of Jess' head. Jess spun, boneless, and fell. Rory couldn't see him anymore through the windshield. She undid her seat belt and scrambled out of the car. She wasn't aware of it, but she was crying. "Leave him alone!" She slammed her door, cutting off Elvis Costello.

"He hit me first," said the guy. "Son of a bitch." He was getting something out of the pocket of his leather jacket.

Rory saw that he had a pair of handcuffs. Her skin crawled. She took a hasty step back. Nobody was tying her up, that was for sure. "Jess!" she cried, on the verge of hysteria. "Get up!" Jess was lying flat on the road. He wasn't unconscious. His eyelids were fluttering.

"Rory?" he said weakly.

"Jess!" She rushed forward, bending over him. "Please get up!"

Rory was astonished when the man snapped a cuff around one of Jess' wrists. He picked Jess up under the arms. Walking backward, he dragged Jess past Rory. Jess was limp. His arms dangled, and his head lolled. "Rory?" he said vaguely, his chin bouncing against his chest. The heels of his sneakers made furrows in the gravel.

"Let go of him, you-you-" She couldn't think of a word that was bad enough to call the man. The fact that he was touching Jess made her feel ill. "Let go of him!" She grabbed the man's arm.

"Stop it," he said, sounding bored. He shifted, grabbing the back of Jess' collar with one hand. With the other hand he shoved Rory, and she fell backward. She sat down hard on the gravel shoulder, hurting her tailbone and scraping her hands. She felt hopeless. Now it looked like the man wanted to kidnap Jess. He was dragging Jess back to their car. Was he going to steal their stolen car, too? How could she stop him? When she had grabbed his arm, she had immediately felt tired and helpless. He was so big, and seemed so strong. She was just a girl who had never been very sporty. She was a girl who had never needed to protect herself. She had grown up in a friendly little town where everyone had more or less looked out for her. She had absolutely no idea how to stop a man like that from doing whatever the hell he wanted. The worst part was that he had already defeated Jess. She knew that Jess was stronger than she was. What was she supposed to do about a man who was tougher than the boy who was supposed to be taking care of her?

"Please," she begged. "Let him go." She got to her feet, wincing a little, because she was getting very sore.

The man dropped Jess beside Rory's door. He took the other cuff, and locked Jess' wrist to the door handle. "There." He wiped his hands on his pant legs. "You're a lot of trouble," he said to Jess.

"What are you doing?" said Rory.

The man turned to her. "Now he won't bother us," the man said. He took a step toward her, and Rory gasped, realizing just how stupid she'd been. She backed up quickly.

"Get away from me!" She was very frightened.

"Be reasonable," he said. "You knew I was coming."

"You're _sick_."

He took at a step forward, holding out his hands. "I'm advising you to cooperate. You don't need to get hurt, here."

"Oh, God." She backed up again.

"One way or another, you're coming with me."

"_No_."

"Yes, you are," he said.

"I won't," she said. "You can't make me."

"Yes," he said, coming forward. "I can."

He reached for her, and she sidestepped, ducking. His hand closed on her sleeve, and she yanked her arm away. She backed up again, and her hip bumped the Chevy. She was screaming, and she didn't even remember when she started to do that. She heard: "Rory!"

It was Jess. He was fully awake now, and back on his feet. She saw that he was trying to break the door handle; he had one foot on the door, and was pulling on the handcuffs. Rory thought he must really be hurting his wrist. "Get away from his car!" he yelled. "Don't let him get you into that car!"

The blond guy said: "Shut up, dammit!"

Rory realized Jess had just given her some very important advice. The scary guy had been herding her toward his car, and she hadn't even known it. He was probably two seconds away from opening the door and stuffing her inside.

"I'm not going anywhere with you!" she yelled at the top of her lungs. He tried to grab her, and she slipped away, sliding along the side of his car.

"Rory," Jess yelled. "Run!"

"I won't leave you all alone!" she cried shrilly.

"He doesn't want me!" he screamed, sounding desperate. She saw that he was fishing in his back pocket. He pulled out his knife and flicked it open with one hand. "Go!" he yelled, and she ran. She climbed over the guardrail, and slid down the embankment. The grass was wet, and her saddle shoes had no traction. She scrambled up the other side, using the bushes to pull herself. She was in a field, running through the tall grass and Purple Loosestrife. She ran like she'd never run before, her head up and her arms pumping. _Don't look back_, she told herself, but she did it anyway. He was almost on her. She shrieked, and tried to run faster, but she was strictly a book and coffee girl, she wasn't magically going to become Mercury just because a bad guy was chasing her. She darted around a scraggly tree, and that was where he caught up with her. He grabbed her around the waist. She screamed as he lifted her off the ground.

"Stop it," he said angrily. "You're being ridiculous!"

"I'm being ridiculous?" She was flabbergasted. She struggled. "Put me down!"

He did. He dropped her, and she fell to her knees. She knelt in the wet grass with her chest heaving, gasping for air. He walked around in front of her. He was so awful, and so big. "Please leave me alone," she moaned. "I don't know who you are, or what you want. I don't care about any of that. I just want you to leave me alone."

"It's time to come home now," he said. "Get up."

"What?" she said, honestly bewildered.

"Get up," he said irritably. He grabbed her by the arm, and dragged her roughly to her feet. She tried to pull away, but he wouldn't let her go.

"Who are you?"

"Stop it." He gave her a shake. "I'm really tired of this crap."

"Ow!" she said. "You stop it!"

"Excuse me," said Jess. The blond guy turned, surprised. Jess hit him up the side of the head with a closed fist. The guy's eyes rolled up and he fell over, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

"Jess!" said Rory. She had never been happier to see anyone in her whole life. She was so happy she burst into tears.

Jess swept her into his arms. "I've got you." He hugged her tightly. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you, I promise."

She was shaking and crying, pressed into his chest. "Is he dead?"

"Ah. I didn't mean to kill him." Rory looked up at him, aghast. Jess was staring down at the man. "Nope, he's not dead."

"I was so scared!"

"I know," he said.

"You were locked up!"

"I know." He gave her a squeeze.

"How did you get free?" she asked.

He kissed the top of her head. "I picked the lock." He kissed her forehead, then kissed her on the lips. "Hang on, okay? I need to check this guy out." He let go of her, and crouched down. He began going through the creepy guy's pockets. He found a brown leather wallet, and looked at the driver's license. "Huh," he said.

"What?" She was standing behind Jess. She had a tight grip on his shoulder.

"Does he look like a Maurice to you?"

"Not so much," said Rory. "Maybe a Steve."

Jess laughed. "I was thinking exactly that." He looked up over his shoulder, and shot her a grin.

"Maurice," said Rory.

"Maurice Emmell," said Jess. "Or, Kidnapper Number Four."

"Don't," said Rory, tightening her grip on his shoulder.

"Ouch." He put his hand on her hand. After a moment, he went back to the wallet. He looked in the billfold; there was quite a bit of cash. "Well, I'm gonna have to confiscate that." He put it in his pocket. He patted down the other pockets, and found another wallet. "Oh, shit," he said, sounding bleak.

"What?" she said.

Jess stood up. "He's a detective."

Rory felt sick. "He's the police?"

"No. A private detective." He shook his head. "Oh, man."

"Jess?" she said tentatively. Jess seemed really angry, and Rory was confused.

"Your mother!" he said explosively. "She hired a detective!"

"It can't be," said Rory. "No. She would never hire a creep like that."

"She would if she thought he could get the job done! He found us in less than twenty-four hours, Rory!"

"He's a nut," said Rory. "This can't be right. I don't think he's from my mother. She probably doesn't even know I'm gone yet."

"Rory," said Jess. "Do you really think she wouldn't have checked on you? On the night your ex-boyfriend roughed you up? Lorelai was probably planning to sit and watch you sleep. I bet she went into your room, like, five minutes after I took you."

"Stop!" yelled Rory. "You're wrong about this! First of all, my grandparents would hire the detective, not my mother! That's just the way they are! Second, they'd hire someone that was classy! They'd never hire a weirdo named Maurice!"

"Why are you yelling at me?" Jess yelled.

"Because you want to make this into a big thing about how much my mother hates you!" she cried. "That sicko put his hands all over me, and you're looking for an excuse to get bent out of joint about my mother!" She started to cry in earnest, gasping and hiccoughing, great tears dripping down her cheeks.

Jess grabbed her and pulled her into a hug. "Calm down. Come on Rory, take a breath." He shrugged out of his jean jacket, and draped it over her shoulders. "Let's get out of here and leave this doofus to his nap." He put a hand on the small of her back, and steered her back to the road. "Sweet dreams," he said to Maurice Emmell. Rory sniffed, and wiped her nose on the back of her hand.

They made their way back along the path Rory had broken when she ran through the grass. "Jess," she said.

"Yeah," said Jess.

"Whatever he wants, he's just going to find us again."

"Maybe I can slow him down," Jess said, flicking open his knife.

Rory's heart thudded, and she stumbled. Jess grabbed her around the waist with his other arm. "Are you going to faint?"

"I've never fainted in my life," she said, which wasn't strictly true. She was somewhat mesmerized by the knife. The blade glinted in the sun. "What are you going to do?" She was cold. There was a high buzzing sound in her ears.

"His tires." He snapped shut the knife, and put it back in his pocket. "All of them. What did you think I meant?"

"Nothing." She slid her arms into the sleeves of Jess' jean jacket and put her hands in the pockets. That was when she found it. In one pocket, she found her school tie. In the other, her hand closed around a flat, crinkly little square. She felt it with her fingers.

Jess gave her his hand, and helped her up the embankment. When they got to the guardrail he simply picked her up and plopped her on the other side. He used one hand to vault himself over, landing lightly. "Go sit down," he told her. He headed over to the Chevy, knife in hand.

Rory had to put her hand on the dangling handcuffs to open the door. They were cheap looking, and scary. She shuddered. She sat with her feet on the road. The Pogues were on the radio and she knew the song. It had her mother's name in it. She listened to the lyrics, waiting for it, and as she did Rory felt a wellspring of sadness bubble up inside her. What was she doing out in the hard, scary world, far away from the people who loved her? Was she really so weak a boy could lead her around by the nose? She took the condom out of her pocket and looked at it, turning it over in her hand.

Had he been that sure of her? She had thought she was falling in love with him. Maybe she was on her way to being ready, but she certainly wasn't ready yet. She wasn't feeling very sexy now. She was feeling dirty and ugly. Even though he hadn't said a word, the fact that he had a condom in his pocket made her feel harassed and pressured. _Get a grip_, she told herself sternly. _It's probably not even for you._ The thought made her feel worse. If he wasn't carrying a condom because he wanted her, then who had he been thinking of?

Jess got in the car. He heard the song, and must have known it would make her weepy; he hastily turned off the radio. Guiltily, Rory stuffed the condom in her pocket. She avoided looking at him. She drew her legs into the car, and pulled the door toward her, causing the handcuffs to clunk against the side of the car. Jess backed up. He pulled around the Chevy, and shot forward, almost smoking the tires. He was driving as if he was angry, and she looked at him cautiously.

"What?" he said irritably.

"Are you mad at me?" she asked.

"I'm mad at your _mother_," he said. "Jeez—Lorelai can make me mad, and she's not even here."

"She didn't have anything to do with that."

"I can't stand it that she hates me."

"She doesn't hate you," Rory said.

"Hah," he said.

"Please stop saying bad things about my mother," said Rory. "If you don't stop, I'm going to have to get out of this car."

"I love you, Rory," he said, his eyes on the road.

"What?" she said, shocked.

"Never mind." He felt around on the seat until he found a book. He dropped it in her lap. "Read to me."

She picked up _The Horse's Mouth_, and opened it to a random page. She read aloud: "'_What did he care about breaking his mother's heart?_'" Rory's voice broke.

"Keep reading," Jess said grimly, his eyes on the road.

A tear ran down her cheek as she flipped to a different page. "'_I still remember Rozzie's indignation when I unbuttoned her bodice . . . _'"

"Oh, God," Jess said.

~ * ~

To be continued . . .


	7. 7

7.

Rory's hands were shaking. She held the book in her lap and looked down at it, while the car bounced on the unpaved road. The black letters seemed to dance on the page. From the corner of her eye she saw the world outside the window, flashing by. It was giving her a headache. She was _trying_ to read to Jess - he had persuaded her to switch to _Winesburg, Ohio - _but her stomach was feeling fizzy. She was thinking she might have to ask him to stop the car.

She was working her way through a story called '_Little Paper Pills_.' Rory thought the writing was beautiful, carefully precise and realistic, but the subject matter was making her sad; stories of unmarried, pregnant girls reminded her of her mother. The thought of Lorelai was almost too painful. She knew that in running away she was hurting her mother. It was hard to imagine how upset and worried she must be. Rory stole a surreptitious glance at Jess. She wondered: _Is he worth it_?

Jess drove slowly, his left arm resting on the window ledge. His wrist was raw and red. He checked frequently in the rear view mirror. From time to time he would finger the sore spot, high on his cheek, where Maurice Emmell had hit him. He didn't have a bruise, but he would eventually. He also had a small cut under his eye. Jess craned his neck, searching. There were no proper addresses, only numbered plates tacked to metal posts, marking narrow roads that could lead to anywhere. Jess was looking for the place where he was supposed to meet up with 'some guy,' to pick up 'some thing.' He wouldn't elaborate.

She was cold. Under different circumstances, Rory thought it would be very sweet to be wearing Jess's jean jacket; it was big on her, and made her feel comfortably small. The jacket smelled of him, which she liked - he liked being wrapped up in something that was his - but it was still slightly damp from the evening before. She thought of the condom, nestled quietly in her pocket, unseen and unremarked, and all that it implied. She could feel it, radiating purpose, indicating intent; it was as if it were emitting an ultra high frequency noise they couldn't consciously perceive, but which acted on them, nevertheless. The fact of the condom's existence could not be ignored forever.

Rory read aloud, her voice a quiet monotone. Jess had said that he loved her. A man had attacked them, and Jess had said that he loved her. In that one thing, had he been telling the truth? If it was true, did she have to have sex with him? Somehow, Rory didn't see Jess sitting on his hands the way Dean had for so long. At the thought of Dean she felt a fresh, sharp pain in her heart. In her mind she had a clear picture of his anguished face hovering above her. Forcibly she turned her thoughts away, but the only other thing she could think of was sex. Sex with Jess. His proximity, the smell and touch and taste of him, was making her a little crazy. He took up more than his fare share of space, filling her eyes. It was a problem, and she was still herself enough to recognize her dilemma. She could become obsessed by the smallest detail of his person. She wanted to lift up his shirt, and look at him properly. She wanted to undo his jeans, and touch his stomach. She wanted to touch it with her tongue.

Rory had the feeling that Jess was watching her, but when she looked up from the book he was sitting stiffly, now with both hands on the wheel. He was looking forward, out the window. She stared at him for a moment. Jess had wanted her to read from _Winesburg_ because the author, Sherwood Anderson, had influenced a generation of American writers: Hemingway; Faulkner; Steinbeck; there were countless others. In Jess's words, the writing was 'real' and 'filled with emotion.'

Rory was enjoying the story, but she thought it was a little too real, hyper-real, maybe. And heavy on the epiphany. She was lukewarm on Hemingway, but she loved Faulkner and Steinbeck. Everyone did - or at least said they did. She yawned. She was starting to feel a little queasy. The story she was reading was at that moment talking about virginity. To finish the sentence she was in the middle of she had to say the word out loud and as she did it rang in her ears. And just like that, embarrassed and furtive, she was back to thinking about sex. There was something _wrong_ with her.

Rory knew that having sex for the first time was likely to be painful, and she was frightened of that pain, but she was starting to think that it was time for her virginity to be a part of her life that was over. Rory was, however, still her mother's daughter, and it wasn't possible for her to think about sex without a certain amount of cold analytical forethought. She had to ask herself: _What if I got pregnant? Would I keep the child? Do I really want to be tied to this man - through a child - for the rest of my life?_

She yawned again, and touched her forehead. She was feeling clammy. There was another issue preoccupying Rory. She didn't know when it had happened, but she had stopped thinking of Jess as a boy and started to think of him as a man. He was brave and decisive and entirely lovable, but he was also dark, and wildly unpredictable. There was a strong possibility that in giving herself to Jess Mariano she would forget herself entirely. She was already following him blindly into the dangerous, convoluted maze that was America outside Stars Hollow. She didn't know who to trust, or how to behave. They had been assaulted and menaced and propositioned, and it wasn't even 9am.

The book dipped and Rory's voice grew heavy. She let it drop into her lap. She was tired. She had slept very little the night before and hardly eaten anything. "Rory?" Jess said, but it would have been a very great effort to answer. First she was awake and thinking. She fell into half a dream, still vaguely mulling over recent events. Little by little, she lost control of her thoughts. Her head fell forward. Finally she was under, and her dreams were controlling her.

She was in her room, her own room. She turned in a circle, slowly, looking at her books and all her things. Her closet door was half open, the way she'd left it; she could see all her clothes. There were dresses - lots of dresses - wilted, and hanging limply on their hangers like shed skins. She plucked a book from her bookshelf, and opened it. It was blank.

Her brow furrowed. She had read this book before, and enjoyed it, but now she couldn't remember the title. She looked at the page as if from a great distance, squinting, and her stomach twisted.

The phone rang, and she picked it up. She heard: "Rory? Rory! Where are you? Answer me!" It was her mom, and she bit back a sob. "Mom?" she said, or tried to say, and that was when she discovered she couldn't talk. She tried again. She opened her mouth, she struggled, but no words would come out. She had to talk to her mother, to tell her she was okay!

There was a loud rap at her bedroom door, and she was frightened. "Rory?" She recognized Dean's voice. "Open up!"

She had to see Dean. She had to find a way to tell him she was sorry. She put her hands on the doorknob, and twisted, pulling open the door. He had tricked her! It wasn't Dean. It was Maurice Emmell. She tried to slam shut the door, but he blocked it with his foot. "I found you!" he said triumphantly. He held up a pair of handcuffs. She tried to back away, but her feet were stuck. Her hands were white and useless, but still he locked them up. He grinned at her evilly. He was nothing but teeth, then he was on her.

She must have startled Jess; she had the impression that she'd been screaming. He was fighting to get the car under control. She sat up, looking around wildly, not sure where she was or what was going on.

"Rory!" Jess said. "What happened?"

"Stop the car!" she cried. Jess pulled over sharply. She had her door open, and one foot on the ground, before they had even stopped moving. She lurched away, into the field. Her head was throbbing. The light was harsh on her eyes, and everything - all the trees and bushes, even the grass - looked fake, too sharp and bright.

"Rory!" Jess said, and she jumped. She hadn't realized he had come up behind her.

"Don't come any closer!" she said, backing away. She tripped, and almost fell. "Stop looking at me!"

"What's the matter?" He sounded concerned. "Are you okay?"

"Stay away!"

"I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to do," he said gently, holding up his hands. He took a step forward. "You were asleep." His voice was careful. "You were dreaming. I think you're a little out of it."

"Stop talking!" She didn't want to be touched, so she backed up again. "Be quiet!"

"Rory, please-"

"Oh, my God." She spun around. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what?" he said. "I don't hear anything."

"That car," she said anxiously, turning to look at him. "It's that car!"

He shook his head. "Rory - no. It's just us. There's no one here but you and me."

"That noise! It's driving me crazy!"

"Rory, you're not making sense. I think-" Rory didn't hear the rest. His voice grew faint and far away. She was hit by wave of dizziness, and hit hard. It was impossible to stay on her feet. She was falling, and the last thing she saw was Jess closing in on her, moving in jerky stop motion.

-

A little while later, she opened her eyes. She was stretched out on her back in the grass, with her head on Jess's lap.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice thick.

He smiled down at her. "You fainted."

"I did not!"

"Rory," he said, laughing. "You keeled right over."

"Oof. Help me sit up." She felt shaky and confused. Then she felt sick. "Oh," she moaned. "I think I'm gonna throw up."

"Okay." He helped her to her knees. She bent over with one hand on the ground, gagging. Jess held back her hair and she threw up.

He rubbed her back. "Better?"

"Yeah," she said, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. She leaned back against him, closing her eyes. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"I think you're car sick."

"Car sick?" she said. "Please. Little children get car sick."

He wrapped his arms around her. "Lots of people get car sick. Mainly women. You were reading, you didn't eat properly and you drank that ridiculous cola."

"Hmm," she said.

"Do you have a headache?" he asked.

"Yeah. Everything is so bright. Even when I close my eyes."

"Well, maybe there's something in the car. Something we can put over your eyes. You should go back to sleep."

She shook her head. "Nu-uh. I had a bad dream."

"What did you dream?"

"I don't remember," she lied.

"Come on. I'm sorry, but we have to get going." He stood, and pulled her to her feet. Her legs were wobbly. "Do you want me to carry you?"

She considered his question seriously. It would be kind of nice to be carried. "No," she said.

He put his arm around her shoulders, and helped her back to the car. "Sit." He reached around her, into the car. He found the bottle of water, and gave it to her. "Rinse your mouth out." She looked stupidly at the bottle. He took it back, opened it, and handed it to her. He disappeared around the back of the car. She took a sip, put the cap on, and put the bottle away. Laboriously, she hauled herself to her feet, hanging onto the side of the car. She took a couple of steps, and then spat out the mouthful of water. She was panting, so she stopped there, trying to catch her breath. "You have to eat," Jess called out. He was rooting in the trunk. "We have to get you some food."

"Ugh," she groaned. "Don't talk about food."

"I'm serious," he said. "That's what will make you feel better." He came forward. In his hands he had a green and grey plaid scarf, a man's muffler. There was a navy blue, down-filled jacket tucked under his arm.

"What's that?" she said.

"It was in the trunk. Sit down." He wrapped the muffler over her eyes, tying it at the back of her head, like a blindfold. It was a man's scarf, so it was kind of scratchy, but it cut the light completely. Immediately, she felt better.

"That's good," she said.

"Put your feet in." She swung her feet into the car. "I don't want you to be too hot," he told her. "But you could use this jacket as a pillow."

"Hang on." She slipped out of his jean jacket, and blindly held it out.

"Thanks," he said, taking possession of his jacket, her school tie, and the condom. He tucked the down jacket next to her head, and she settled back, feeling sleepy.

"Seat belt," Jess said.

"What?" she said vaguely. She was too tired to put on her seat belt. She felt him pull the belt around her, locking her in, making her safe. There was the soft brush of lips on her forehead, then she faded away.

-

She awoke suddenly, from a dark dream she didn't remember. Everything was black. She remembered the blindfold, and peeled back a corner. At first the bright sunlight blinded her. Jess was rapping impatiently on the driver's side window. She saw that the keys were still in the ignition. He had locked himself out. "Come on, Rory," she heard him say. "Wake up."

She leaned over and popped the lock. He got into the car, slamming the door. He started up the car, and turned it around. "Where are we?" she asked. "What's going on?"

"Ah . . . just a minute." He was driving with one hand, his right. With his left hand, he was cradling his stomach.

"Jess-" she started, but he cut her off.

"Everything went wrong! Dammit!"

"What?" she said anxiously. "What do you mean? What went wrong?" She pulled off the blindfold. She was looking around now, out the windows. She was totally confused.

"I was late," he said. "Things were said. I should have kept my mouth shut. Man!"

"Wha-what things?"

"My regular stupid stuff," he said, sounding disgusted. "Jeez, I can be such an asshole!" He glanced at her. "Sorry."

"What were you late for?" she asked, although she already knew.

"My thing," he said. "The thing I was going to do. Now we're really up the creek, Rory."

She was starting to feel all fluttery inside. "You were late because of me," she said flatly.

"No."

"Yes," she said. "You were late because you were taking care of me."

He sighed. "Yeah."

"Are you - are we - in trouble?"

"Yeah," he said.

"What happens now?"

"I have to make it right."

"But how do you do that?"

"Uh . . . that, I'm not so sure about." He let out a long breath. "I have to pull over. Maybe you could drive for a while?"

"Ah," she said. "Sure." She looked at him. "Jess, what's wrong?"

He shook his head.

"Jess?"

"It's so stupid."

"Tell me."

"How are you feeling, anyways?"

"Fine," she said. "Better."

"Good." He stopped the car. "Because I'm not feeling so hot."

He felt under his jacket, wincing. When he brought out his hand, she thought it was the light from the sun that made his fingers red. She drew in a sharp breath. "Jess," she said. "Are you bleeding?"

-

"I got cut," he said sheepishly. He'd slid over to the passenger seat.

"Oh, my God." She knelt on the side of the road, leaning into the car. "Show me." She tugged at the hem of his T-shirt, and he gasped.

"Ow," he said. "Easy, easy."

"Please, let me look." He grimaced as she pulled the shirt up, peeling it away from the wound. "Oh, God," she said again. She put her hand over her mouth.

"Are you going to throw up? I'm only asking because I'd prefer it if you aimed over there." He pointed away from the car.

"No," she said tersely. She took a thin breath through clenched teeth. There was a small part of herself that felt like shrinking away and she stuffed it down, deep inside. She had to keep her head. She examined the wound. It was a clean cut, a couple of inches long, on the side of his rib cage. It was bleeding profusely. Rory thought it was gross and awful, but it didn't look deep. She couldn't see guts, or anything hideous. She thought that maybe it was manageable. She looked up at him. "We have to get you to a hospital."

"No," he said sharply. "They'd call the cops."

She was amazed. "Jess, you were knifed." She _wanted_ the cops. This was what the cops were _for_.

He put his hand on her cheek, and smiled at her sadly. "Rory, think about it. The police would make me tell them what I was doing."

"So?"

He sighed. "I don't want to tell the cops what I was doing. And I don't want you mixed up in this."

"Me?" she said, surprised. All she'd done was wait in the car.

"Then there's Lorelai," he said.

Rory felt a surge of irritation. Her mother, again! Couldn't he think of anything else? It always came back to her mother. She was beginning to think he was jealous.

"You're all got up in a ritzy school uniform, you're obviously underage, you don't even have I.D., you show up at a hospital with a guy who's been in a knife fight - they'd keep you until they figured out who you were."

"Don't be silly," she said, thinking: _Knife fight_? Had Jess stabbed somebody too?

"Rory," he said. "Some other girl, they wouldn't look twice. You look like a rich girl. You _are_ a rich girl."

"I am not!" she protested.

"They'd be concerned," he said. "They'd think you were in trouble, or like … that I might be keeping you against your will."

"But you're _not!_"

"They'd put you in a room and ask you questions, and you'd tell them everything, even if you didn't mean to."

"I wouldn't tell them anything," she said, but she wasn't sure. "What does that have to do with my mother, anyway?"

Jess winced, clutching his stomach. Tiredly, he continued, "I guarantee you, if Lorelai wasn't looking for you before - she's looking for you, now. They'll take you away from me, Rory."

Rory felt a thrill of fear. She didn't want to be separated from Jess - not yet. She wasn't ready to go. The longer they were together, the more she wanted to be with him. She didn't know where they were ultimately headed, or what they were planning on doing together. She only knew that she desired him and wanted to be by his side. The possibility of returning home was at that moment remote in her mind, but it still existed. She had done something wrong. She cheated on Dean. Jess had thought she was in trouble and in the middle of the night had stolen her away. But the real reason she had run was because she was ashamed of what she had done and she was embarrassed that everyone knew.

The thing was … after everything that had happened, she was starting to have a method of measuring the seriousness of her transgression. She was beginning to believe that what she had done just wasn't that bad. At least – she knew no matter what, her mother would take her back.

"Are you sure the hospital would call the cops?" She drew on her underwhelming reservoir of knowledge. Aside from the education Jess was providing, everything she knew about the seamy side of life came from TV and the movies. "I thought that was just for gunshot wounds."

"Hello," he said. "For the final time - I'm not a criminal mastermind. I'm making an assumption. Besides, we're not going to some crappy county hospital and sitting in a waiting room for a day and a half until they condescend to slap a band-aid on this thing." He leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes.

"Jess," said Rory anxiously.

"We have to get to Asbury Park," he mumbled. "Somehow, I have to explain to the Hartzke brothers how their pickup went sideways." He closed his eyes.

"Where?" Rory shook his shoulder. "Who? Jess, wake up!"

He opened his eyes. "Len and Buddy and Guy," he said, answering her second question. "Well, mainly Len. He's the brains of the operation." He smiled at her blearily.

"Jess, you're scaring me!" Horrified, she realized she hadn't been doing anything constructive. He had been bleeding the whole time and she had been debating with him! She had to do something about his injury. She almost wished he would pass out. She'd be able to go ahead and take him to the nearest hospital. With a sudden flash of inspiration, she began to unbutton her shirt. She pulled it out of her waistband. She reached underneath, and began working the strap of her slip off her shoulder. She reached up her sleeve, and pulled the strap down. She repeated this with the other strap.

For the briefest of seconds, she hesitated, her arms crossed over her chest. She looked up, biting her lip. Jess was watching her quietly, an odd expression on his face. She was uneasy. She couldn't tell what his expression meant. Deliberately, she rolled her slip down to her waist, exposing her pretty bra.

"Hearts," he said, and she blushed, she knew she did, she could feel the heat in her face. She stood, and rolled up her skirt, pinning it awkwardly to her sides with her elbows. She grabbed her slip, and worked it down. She didn't want it to touch the ground and get dirty, so she bent, and stepped out of it carefully. Suddenly, she looked up. Bent over, with her skirt rolled up, she was totally dishabille. He could see her breasts.

A vaguely formed half-though flitted though her mind, a faint vision of his former girlfriend, Shane, on her back, with her legs in the air. Rory felt sad. Jess had probably seen a lot of girls naked. Maybe Dean had gotten her first kiss, but anything else would be a first for her. Jess would never have another first time at anything. There were no firsts left for him to share with her.

Unless - had he meant it, what he said earlier? Was he truly in love with her? If he gave her his heart, and she took it, would it be his first time being in love? Rory straightened, letting her skirt fall back into place. She held her head high, and let him look at her.

"Rory," he said in a low voice. He took a handful of her skirt, and pulled. She stumbled toward him. He slid a hand to the small of her back, and tried to pull her down, but she stopped him.

"Wait." It was hard to know how to behave or what to do. She wanted him, but she wanted him _slowly._ To divert him she said, "Take this," and handed him the slip. He looked at her quizzically. "Rip it in half. Down the seam. I need two big pieces."

He looked at it for a second, blinking. He found the seam. He ripped the slip down one side, then the other, and handed the pieces back to her. She took one and draped it over her shoulder. The other, she folded several times, making a puffy, silky pad. "I don't know how comfortable this is going to be," she fretted. "Or how absorbent."

"I'll live," he said, clearly amused.

"But it's _satin._" Rory fit the pad over his wound. "Press on it." She took the other half of the slip, measuring with her eyes. "Maybe we need to cut this thing in half again."

"Here." He got out his knife and Rory gave it a hard look. Jess's knife did not have blood on it. Maybe he hadn't stabbed the guy who had stabbed him. "You hold the slip," he said. With one hand, he made a small cut at the neck, and Rory was able to rip her undergarment down the front. She stopped tearing before she got to the hem. Now she had a long piece of fabric.

"Lean forward." She was able to wrap it twice around his stomach, holding the makeshift bandage in place. She pulled it tight, knotting it in front. She leaned forward to inspect her work and he shivered. "Oh! Did I hurt you?"

"No," he said tightly.

"We need some real stuff. Like, from a pharmacy."

"Later," he said.

She pulled a stray hair away from her mouth. "I'm worried about infection." Her shirt was still hanging open and a faint breeze brush past her stomach.

"I like to live on the edge," he said.

"I want to make sure you don't get sick."

"Rory," he said. "You're killing me."

She was startled. "What?"

"Come here." He yanked her into the car and on to his lap.

"Jess? I don't want to hurt you." She was sitting sideways, her feet hanging out of the car. She tried not to be too heavy. He had an arm behind her back, supporting her. With a finger, she delicately touched the cut under his eye. Jess reached under her shirt, and slid her bra strap off her shoulder.

His fingers were cold. "Jess-" Was it true that he loved her? How was she to find out? She didn't imagine he'd have much patience in her asking, over and over: _"Do you love me? No, really - do you love me?"_

He pulled down her bra, freeing one breast. She almost stopped him - she thought about it - but he bent to kiss her breast and she felt a warmth she'd never felt before. "Oh!" she whispered, feeling unsettled. He played with her soft skin, sucking it into his mouth. She began to feel as if she were on the verge of understanding something. It was as if a door had opened. The door was inside her, and it led to a whole new world. Her head was full of unfamiliar thoughts. They were earthy, womanly thoughts, and she was a little scared.

"Am I your real story?" Jess had asked her last night. "Or am I the other one?" Almost involuntarily, her hands slid around to the back of his head. She coiled her fingers in his coarse, dark hair. Her mother had accused her of keeping Dean in reserve, just in case things with Jess didn't work out. Now she was on the road with Jess, and it was her mother, and going home that was her backup plan.

No matter what she did, Lorelai would take her back.

She squirmed on his lap, and he gasped. "Am I hurting you?" she whispered.

He lifted his head. "Shut up and kiss me," he said, covering her mouth with his own.

~ * ~

To be continued . . .

A/N: I thought it was time to say hi to everybody. Hi! Thanks for your reviews, and all your emails. It's been great hearing from you, and reading your stories. I'd like to thank Becka, who coined the term 'Dark Literati' which I borrowed for my summary. I'd also like to thank calligirl121 for nominating this story at the Gilmore Globes. There are a lot of terrific GG stories here at FFN, so please check my favorites list. Make sure to go through my signed reviews and support those writers as well. Thanks again!


	8. 8

8. 

His hand tightened on her breast and she made an indistinct noise, squeezing her legs together. When he lifted his head to look at her, his eyes were huge. She chased his mouth with her own; she wanted him to keep kissing her. She forgot to worry about love. She was entranced. His chin was scratchy and he smelled lightly of sweat, but he was so dear to her, and there couldn't have been anything more intimate than sitting on his lap. All she wanted was to kiss him, and for him to kiss her back. She wriggled, bumping his wound. He groaned. Faintly and far away she felt bad about that, so she took his hand off her breast and put it on her thigh, under her skirt. She knew he wanted to touch her there, and she wanted to do something nice for him. "Rory," he mumbled into her mouth. She ignored him. 

"Rory," he said. He started to take his hand away. She had closed her eyes, but she found his wrist easily. She opened her knees, just a little, and guided his hand between her legs, trapping it with her thighs. Now Jess was the one who was shaking, although it could have been from blood loss. 

Rory kissed him, putting her hand flat to his chest. She was feeling dark and powerful. Jess wasn't like the other guys she had known. He was dry and sarcastic, and sometimes, he was a little superior. It was nice to know that she could make him squirm. Jess moved his hand, and she shifted again. Suddenly he was touching her down there, just cupping her. She tensed. Holding her like that, he had too much control over her. She felt loose and irrational; she might have done anything. She broke off the kiss, not sure what came next. She looked up at him. Their eyes locked. He was breathing hard, and so was she. 

Finally, she whispered, "I don't care," which didn't mean anything, and must not have told him what he wanted to hear, because he took his hand away. "Jess?" she said, almost tearfully. 

"Ah, Rory," he said, sighing. He put his hand on the back of her neck, and pulled her close. His breath went in and out. She nestled into his chest with her hand near her face. She almost put her thumb in her mouth before she realized what she was doing. 

There was the blare of a horn, and a shower of gravel. Rory jumped, and Jess said, "Yee-arrgh!" She slid out of his lap, to stand by the car. She turned away from the road, hurriedly tucking herself into her bra. As she buttoned up her shirt, her hands began to shake. She was looking everywhere. Jess dragged himself to his feet with obvious pain. He put up a hand to shield his eyes, and watched the car disappear in the distance. "Hey," he said. Rory tucked in her shirt. She'd been startled, and couldn't talk yet. 

"Relax," he said. He moved her hair and straightened her collar. "Not everybody out here is out to get us." She whirled, and caught him around the waist, in a tight hug. Her heart was beating extra fast. She felt guilty and nervous. "Ouch," he said, but he hugged her back. She hid her red face against his chest. Safe in the circle of his arms, she was okay. 

  


"Phone," he said. "I need to get to a phone. Stop if you see one." 

"Okay." She was gripping the wheel so tightly her knuckles were white. "Uh--I think I'm going to have a problem here." She wasn't used to such heavy traffic. 

"You're doing fine," he said soothingly. 

"I'm scared!" 

"You're okay," Jess said. "I promise." 

Rory shot a glance his way. He was holding his side and making a face. "But you look worried!" 

"No, no," he said. "I have total confidence in you." 

"Total confidence in me driving in New Jersey?" 

"Ah," he said. 

"That's what I thought!" 

"Calm down," he said. "It's not the Autobahn." 

"New Jersey drivers are the meanest drivers in the world!" 

"I don't know where you're getting that," he said. 

"They're honking at me!" 

"Okay, there's that-" 

"They're swearing at me!" 

"Just a little." 

"Oh God!" she said, flinching. 

"And they're passing you simultaneously on the left and on the right." He laughed. "You gotta love these guys." 

"It's not the love affair of the century," said Rory. 

"Drive defensively," he said. "You have to act like you belong." 

"You're not helping!" she snapped. "Oh God, oh God . . ." 

"Change lanes!" he said. "Now! Go--and go. Good." He looked over his shoulder. "One more time. Go now!" 

"Oh, oh, oh," she said. "Help!" 

"Exit. Exit! That's it." He leaned back in his seat and let out a breath. "Good," he said, after she had made the exit. He closed his eyes. "Follow the signs," he said, sounding fuzzy. "There's gotta be a phone somewhere." 

"Are you okay?" she asked, making a left hand turn. 

"I'm fine," he said. "Just tired." 

"You're worried," she said. 

"Yeah." He looked at her. "Rory, maybe we should put you on a bus." 

"What?" She was upset. "Why? What did I do?" 

"Do you want to go home?" he asked. 

"What about you?" she said, not allowing herself to think about whether or not she wanted to go home. 

"I can't. I can't go back there. I dug a really big hole, Rory. I'm in this deep." He held a hand at eye level. "And I'm sinking fast. But I don't have drag you down with me." 

"Jess," she said. "You're not dragging me down. Why would you say that?" 

"Oh, come on," he said. "The screw up with the Hartzke brothers' merchandise, the incident with sharp objects . . . " 

"So what?" she said, marking the word 'merchandise,' and filing it away. 

"The weirdo detective your mother hired . . ." 

"She didn't!" said Rory. 

"This is a stolen car . . ." 

"I know," she said impatiently. 

"I just don't think you're being yourself," he said. 

"What?" 

"Come on, Rory," he said. "You let me take your top off!" 

Her throat closed up. She had let him do other things too. "You-I thought you-why? Why do you say it like that?" 

"It felt wrong." 

"Oh, my God," she said. 

"What?" 

"You jerk." She saw the payphone, and pulled up to the curb. 

"Rory," he said. 

"Shut up," she said. 

"Rory!" 

"You've been picking at me, and pawing at me--but when I want you to touch me, it's bad? What's wrong with you?" 

"I didn't mean it like that," he said, sounding upset. "That's not what I meant at all." 

"Then what did you mean?" She crossed her arms over her chest. 

He looked flustered. "It was, like, heat of the moment. A reaction to all the tension." He shook his head. "I wasn't scamming you. I guess I wanted to know how far you'd go. It wasn't conscious, or anything. I didn't think you'd go that far." 

"Ever?" she said. 

"Not like that," he said. "Not so far, so fast." 

"So what does that make me?" she asked. "In your eyes." 

"No, Rory-" 

"Say it," she said. 

"I won't," he said. "Knock it off." 

"You stink," she said. 

"How long did you go out with Dean?" he said. 

"You know how long we went out," she said irritably. 

"And?" 

"And what?" 

"In all that time--how far did you let him go?" 

She tried to meet his eyes without blinking too much. "All the way. I let him go all the way." 

"You did not," he said. 

"I did too." 

"You're lying," he said. "I don't know why, but you're lying." 

"He came in my window," she said. "All the way in." 

"Jesus," he said. "That's really irritating. I don't really believe you, but it's still irritating." 

"So there," she said. "Put that in your pipe and smoke it." 

"I will," he said. "Sheesh. What was Lorelai thinking? If you were my daughter, I would have made you sleep upstairs." 

"I don't know what your problem is," she said. "You're making me feel bad, and I don't like it. I wish you would stop." 

"I don't know what I'm saying," he said. "I was thinking out loud." He looked at the phone. 

"Is that what you want?" she said, trying not to cry. "What was it all about, if you were just going to send me home?" 

"I don't want you to go!" he cried. "I thought it would be safer! Can't you see I'm freaking out here?" 

"Jess," she said. 

"These are bad guys, serious guys I got messed up with. I want you out of it." 

"But-" 

"I don't know if I can keep you safe!" 

"Can't we forget about them?" she asked. "Can't we just go someplace they're not?" 

"Rory," he said, and his voice was weary and resigned. "Then they'd be chasing us too." 

"Please don't send me away," she said. 

  


She opened his door. "Make your phone call," she said, giving him her hand. "Get it over with." He got to his feet with a grimace. Side by side, the two of them walked to the phone. After his outburst, Jess seemed shy and used up, and Rory felt uneasy. She didn't want to think of Jess as scared, it was heartrending. She wanted him to be strong, and if not in charge, then at least in control. Not in control of her--she wouldn't want that--but in control of things. She didn't know why she had lied to him about Dean. She didn't think he believed her; it had to be evident, to a guy like Jess, that she was inexperienced. She had been upset, and had wanted to needle him. Telling him that Dean, of all people, had taken her virginity, was a quick way to get under his skin. 

She knew that she shouldn't be messing with his head while he was injured, but she hadn't liked what he had seemed to be saying. It was almost as if he had been testing her. He wanted to touch her, he had been trying to touch her, but if she let him do it--if she wanted him to do it--then it was as if she wasn't worth wanting anymore. She had to wonder about the impression he had of her. What did he want her to be, some fragile fairy princess, forever out of reach? She had wanted to be with him for so long, and had thought about him secretly. In private, she had taken her thoughts of him from deep in her heart and examined them, at first looking quickly and then looking away, so that she could almost pretend to herself that she was being faithful to Dean, and not looking at all. Then her consideration of Jess deepened, and her glances grew longer. She became accustomed to the fact that she wanted think of him, she was going to think of him, that she wasn't going to get over thinking about him. At night she went to sleep with her hands folded together under her chin, but she tucked memory-snapshots of Jess under her pillow like illicit valentines. She had thought that if nothing else, they would be real together. He would know the truth about her, and she would never have to pretend to be someone that she wasn't. When he looked at her, when he thought of her, did he see someone completely different? She couldn't help but wonder. 

Jess picked up the phone and looked at her pointedly. "What?" she said, feeling grumpy. 

"I'm fine." 

"Okay," she said. 

"So, go back to the car." 

"Jess," she said. 

"Rory," he said, in a warning tone. 

"Fine," she said, turning away. 

"Rory," he called. 

"What!" 

"Put your sweater on," he said. "There's a hand print on the back of your shirt. It's blood." 

She rolled her eyes. 

  


"Okay," he said, when he returned. 

Rory was leaning against the car. She had done a lousy job of parking; the car was about a foot away from the curb. She'd put her sweater on, but hadn't buttoned it up. "So," she said. "How are the Hartzke brothers?" 

He gave her a look. "Fine," he said sourly. 

"Is it all sorted out?" 

"Ah . . ." He looked off down the street. "Sure." 

"Well," she said. "That's good, right?" 

"Uh-huh," he said. 

Rory sighed. So the situation with the mysterious Hartzke brothers wasn't going to be resolved that easily. "What?" 

"Let's get going," he said. 

"But I can't drive around here," she said. "And you don't feel well." 

"Dammit," he said. "Are you positive you can't drive?" 

"Don't swear at me." 

"I'm not," said Jess. "I'm swearing at the situation." 

She looked at him. 

"I'm sorry," he said. 

"I feel like I'm going to kill us. I can't." 

"Oh, God," he said, rubbing his forehead. "And we've kept this car way too long." 

"What should we do?" she asked. "Are we going to steal a new car?" She looked around for another, better car to take. She didn't know what went in to deciding which car to steal. 

"This is what I was talking about," he said. "That's not you." 

"Don't start," she said. 

"It's like I'm ruining you," he said. 

She was startled. "What?" 

"I'm making you into something you're not." 

"How do you know?" she said. "Maybe I would have turned out this way, with or without you." 

He grinned, and it was like the sun breaking through clouds. Rory heaved a sigh of relief--she didn't want to fight any more. "True," he said. "You could have gone bad all on your own. Look at your influences." 

"The worst influences," she said. "Miss Patty, Taylor, Kirk--they're the ones who are criminal masterminds." 

He leaned in and kissed her at the side of her mouth. "So," she said. "When you were on the phone, I had a thought." 

"Uh-huh," he said. 

She looked over her shoulder. Down the block were three little boys. Obviously brothers, they had the same dark skin and hair and eyes. They were meandering in their direction; the littlest one was holding a puppy. Rory took a step closer to Jess, and whispered dramatically, "You're wearing my slip!" 

He smiled. "And you think that's funny." 

She nodded. 

"Good thing I'm secure in my masculinity." 

She laughed. 

"I'll give you ten bucks to never speak of this," he said. 

She held out her hand. "Cross my palm with silver, and we'll see what we can do." 

He shook his head. "Extortion. I'm putting that on the list." 

She made a 'come on, come on' gesture, wagging her fingers. 

Sighing, he got his wallet out of his back pocket. "I only have twenties. Courtesy of Maurice Emmell's generous donation to the 'Rory and Jess Travel Fund.'" 

"That works," said Rory. "Money, money." 

He handed her a bill. She didn't have a pocket in her skirt, so she tucked it in her bra. She was thrilled to have some money, finally. He laughed, grabbing her up into a kiss. She put her arms around his neck. 

"Get a room," one of the little boys said, as they passed on the sidewalk, and Rory and Jess exchanged a glance, surprised. 

"That's a good idea," Jess said. "We could rest. We have some time to kill." He saluted the boys. "Thanks, gentlemen." 

"Anytime," said one of the boys. 

"Hubba, hubba," said another. 

Rory blushed. "Who says that?" she asked. 

"You wanna to see my puppy?" said the littlest boy, holding up the dog. 

"Time to go now," said Jess. 

"Oh, he's cute," said Rory. 

"He's a she," said the boy. 

"Aren't you late for school?" Jess asked, and all three boys laughed. "Okie dokie. Well, it was nice meeting you all." 

"Mister," said the boy. "Is that your wife?" 

"Yes," said Jess. "We've been married for six years." 

Rory laughed. "Six and a half," she corrected. 

"What do you do?" the boy asked. 

"Like, for a living?" Jess said. "I'm the truant officer." 

"Uh-oh," said the boy. 

"That's not true," said the oldest boy. "Because I've met him, and he's not you." 

"Uh," said Jess. 

"There's more than one truant officer," said Rory. "I'm a truant officer, myself." 

"No, you're not," said the middle boy. "You go to St. Mary's." 

"Pardon?" said Rory. 

"How do you know?" the oldest boy asked his brother. 

"Her clothes! Our old babysitter went there." 

"Which one?" 

"Maggie O'Dell," he said. 

"Mary-Margaret O'Dell," the little one said importantly. "That was our babysitter's name." 

The puppy said: "Yip!" 

"Maggie _is_ Mary-Margaret," said the oldest boy. 

"It's two different girls," said the little one, hugging his puppy. 

"No," said the oldest. "There's only one girl." 

"She has more than one name," the middle one offered helpfully. 

"Bye, now," said Jess. The boys wandered away, arguing about whether there was one girl, or two. "That's a stroke of luck," he said. 

"What's that?" Rory asked. 

"If your uniform looks like one of the Catholic school uniforms. It means you won't stick out like a sore thumb." 

"Oh?" she said. 

"If anyone's looking for you, asking around--you'll be harder to spot." 

"Oh," said Rory, troubled. 

  


Jess took the wheel, and even though he was tired and ill, they were probably safer. The Jersey Shore was a series of communities connected by a long ocean boardwalk. Each place was different in character, but the differences weren't necessarily apparent without driving around and examining everything; for example, Long Branch was ritzy, with big houses, and Ocean View had a Christian fundamentalist community who summered in a sort of tent-city. The entire area was really built up, especially at the waterfront, and apart from signs announcing each new place, it was hard to tell where one town ended, and another began. 

Jess overshot Asbury Park by a couple of towns, and drove into Avon, because he was familiar with Avon, and, as he explained, everybody said that Asbury Park was really run down now. Rory wanted to go and look at the ocean, but Jess shook his head. He promised to show her around later, if there was time, but said that right now, he needed to chill. He was fussing over the car issue, but Rory tuned him out; they were in a different state, after all. She didn't think there was going to be a massive dragnet to locate one car. Rory thought their priority should be nursing his injury; she was already planning a quick trip to the nearest drugstore. She had the twenty-dollar bill. 

Just before they pulled into the parking lot of the Sea View Motel, Jess told her to get down on the floor. 

"Are you serious?" She was smiling because the Sea View had no view of the water. 

"As a heart attack," he said. "Get down." 

Grumbling, she did as he asked. She wanted to know why. 

"I don't want anyone to see you," he replied. "I'm going to get us a room. Will you do me a favor, and stay down there?" 

"Why don't I get us the room?" She had her arms on the seat, and she was resting her head on them. She was thinking that he was getting paranoid. "You're the one who's injured." 

"No, you cannot get the room," he said wearily. 

"Jess," she said. 

"Okay," he said. "You know that thing where I tell you to stay in the car, and you get out anyways, and something bad happens?" 

"Yes," said Rory. 

"So," he said. "What are you going to do?" 

"Stay in the car?" 

He nodded. "Stay in the car." 

  


Jess opened the motel room door and hustled her inside. Rory looked around curiously. The room was small, and not very fancy; if anything, it was a little threadbare. There was a window overlooking the parking lot, with a table and chair in front of it. Jess drew the curtains. There was a television bolted to the wall, and a low chest of drawers. There was one bed, a double. Rory looked at the bed, feeling conflicted. There was only one bed. The two of them would have to lie down together, if they wanted to sleep at the same time. She looked at Jess, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. He had brought in the paperbacks, and dumped them on the table. Now he was shrugging out of his jacket, wincing. She moved to help him. 

"I'm dead on my feet," he said. 

"I wonder why," said Rory. She draped his jacket on the chair. 

"I have to sleep. You can watch TV. It won't bother me." 

There was a mirror on the wall, over the chest of drawers. Rory looked into it, and spoke to the back of his head. "I was thinking I should go out," she said tentatively. "I could find a drugstore, and get you some bandages and stuff." 

He stifled a curse. "No way." 

"Jess," she said. "You're bleeding." 

"I know that," he said irritably. "But you're not going out alone." 

"Stop it," she said hotly. "Stop treating me like I'm incompetent." 

"Remember Maurice Emmell?" he asked. "How did it feel when he grabbed you?" 

"Don't," she said thinly. 

"What's to stop him from throwing you over his shoulder?" 

"I'll stop him," she said. 

"Oh, yeah?" he said meanly. "How? By screaming? That worked really well the last time." 

"Please don't," she said. 

"Girls scream and scream, Rory," he said. "Nobody helps them." 

"Quit it!" 

"No one would help you. He could do whatever he wanted to you." 

"He's nowhere around," she said. "He doesn't even know where we are!" 

"He's a licensed investigator," Jess went on. "He'll find us eventually." 

"All the more reason to go now," she said. 

He sat on the edge of the bed. Plainly, he needed to sleep, and didn't know what to do. Looking frustrated, he put his head in his hands. "All he has to do is flash that I.D. You'll be screaming your head off, and no one will lift a finger. And we don't know what he wants. If Lorelai hired him, that's one thing. But maybe he's a freak. Maybe he just wants to take you." 

"That can't be it," she said, shivering. The idea was too ugly to think about. "It's a mixup, or something. Neither of those things is true." 

"We don't know," he said. "Now--are you going to promise me you'll stay here like a good girl? Because I don't know what to do, otherwise." 

"I need to use the bathroom," she hedged. "I want to wash my face." 

"Hurry up," he said. 

She had hoped he would lie down, and maybe even fall asleep, but it seemed he was planning to wait her out. She went into the bathroom, and closed the door. She slipped out of her sweater, and then her shirt. She pulled her hair back into a loose braid. There was a tiny cake of soap. She unwrapped it and smelled it; it didn't smell like anything. She looked at herself in the mirror. In the harsh bathroom light, her face was pale and hollow; she had dark circles under her eyes. She reminded herself that she had to eat, even if she didn't feel like it; when she sneaked out to the drugstore, she could find some food, too. She washed her face. When she was drying off, she looked at the towels. She picked up a hand towel, and opened the bathroom door. She stopped short. Jess had dragged the chair in front of the door. He was slouching in it, asleep. She couldn't squeeze by. She poked his shoulder, and he awoke with a start. 

"What?" he said. 

"Get up," she said irritably. He got out of the chair and stumbled to the bed. "You really take the cake." She pushed the chair out of her way. "You're amazing. Are you holding me hostage now?" 

"I'm trying to take care of you," he said. "Where's your shirt? You're half naked." 

"In there." She gestured vaguely. She held up the hand towel. "Let's change your bandage for this." 

"I can't think unless you put your blouse on," he said petulantly. 

"You don't need to think," she said. "Pull up your T-shirt." 

"You're trying to seduce me," he said. "You're trying to escape by working your wiles on the prison guard." 

"Okay-that's your creepy fantasy. Keep it to yourself, will you?" 

He grabbed her wrist. "Give me your shoes." 

"What?" She was totally flummoxed. 

"I want your shoes," he said. "You can't run away if you don't have shoes." 

"I'm not giving you my shoes." 

He propped himself up on his elbows. "I'm falling asleep. I can't watch you every minute." 

"Good," she said. "I don't want you to watch me every minute. My old boyfriend did that, and look where it got him." She bit her lip. She realized that there had been no formal declaration--Jess had never said that he was her boyfriend. Possibly, he wasn't the sort of person who could be pinned down. Back in Stars Hollow, would she even have been able to fit him into her life? Somehow she didn't see him meeting her grandparents, or taking her to prom. The idea of him in a tux at a debutante ball was absurd. Was that what this crazy adventure was really all about? When Dean had exploded at Chilton, she had been afraid that people were getting the wrong idea about her. So, what did she do? She immediately ran away with another guy. A guy whose hand she had taken and put under her skirt, without securing some sort of promise from him that he was hers. Jess wasn't an ordinary guy, so maybe she could only be with him in extraordinary circumstances. Like running away from home, for example. 

Rory looked at him critically. He was stretched out on the bed, bossy and argumentative, even with a knife wound to his side. This guy was supposed to replace Dean? Dean tended to be jealous, and perhaps a little controlling. But he was also honest, wholly without guile. He had a family. He had a life. He would never have found himself in a situation like this. Despite her caustic comment, she wasn't ready to be dismissive about Dean. After all, he had been her first love. Until the end, he had been really good to her. She had thought she would love him forever. She turned her head away, bothered, her thoughts spinning in her head. 

"Come here," Jess said, patting the bed. She crawled up beside him, kneeling. He lifted his shirt, and she fiddled with his bandage. The original pad was stained with blood; Rory could hardly stand to look at it. She began to worry. How much could he bleed? How hurt was he? 

"Jess," she said, and her voice was slightly strangled, "you're not dying, are you?" 

"What do you care?" 

"Why are you talking to me like that?" 

"I can tell when you're thinking about him," he said, and she froze. "You're thinking you should have stayed in Stars Hollow. My offer still stands, Rory. I can put you on a bus." 

"That's not what I was thinking," she said. "It's complicated." 

"So, enlighten me." They were sitting close, but he seemed very far away. His eyes were dark, and in the unfamiliar setting, he seemed like a stranger. She didn't know what to tell him. 

"I don't know which way is up," she said finally. "That's all. I never know what you're going to do next." 

"Same here," he said, and she was surprised. 

"Me?" she said. "I'm an open book." 

"You used to be," he said. "_The Princess Diaries_." 

"You have some funny ideas," she said, stung. If he thought that, why did he even like her? 

"You're starring in something by Flannery O'Connor, now." 

"You're the one who's bleeding," she snapped. "Anyway, it's better than being in a Jim Thompson novel!" 

His eyes flashed dangerously. "You already knew I wasn't a hearts and flowers kind of guy." 

"That I did," she said. 

"Don't ask me what I'm thinking," he said. "I'm not that kind of guy, either." 

"I know," she said. 

"Are you here with me now," he asked, "or are you somewhere else?" 

"I'm along for the ride," she said carefully. "That's all I can say." 

"Fair enough," he said. "I guess if I die, you can hitch your wagon to another guy." 

She was shocked into tears. 

"You'll get sick of me," he said, watching her cry and making no move to comfort her. "It's inevitable. You got sick of Dean." 

"I didn't get sick of Dean," she said. "I fell for you." 

"But you cheated on Dean," he said. 

"With you!" she said, sniffing. 

"How do I know you won't cheat on me?" he said. 

"That's not fair," she said. She thought of Shane. "How do I know you won't cheat on me?" 

"Because I love you, Rory." He looked at her expectantly. 

"Oh," she said. The last time he'd said it, she hadn't been ready. In the aftermath of all the hubbub, she couldn't be sure it hadn't been a dream. Now, even though she knew he was really saying it--again--she still had nothing to say. 

"That's me reassuring you," he said. 

"Okay." 

"But you can't even say the words." 

"It's too soon, Jess." 

"I've loved you from the start," he said. "I don't want anybody else. But for you, I'm just an experiment." 

"No!" she said. 

"You needed a way to break up with Dean. Lucky for you, I came along." 

"It wasn't like that, and you know it," she said. "You're twisting everything. Why are you doing this?" 

"Because I don't want to be the person you feel bad with." 

"You're making this up as you go along," she said. "What are you trying to make me say?" 

"I'm trying to make you see yourself," he said. "You can't sit there with your shirt off, looking the way you do, and be here with me, while you're still thinking about Dean." 

"That's not what I'm doing," she said. 

"When were you going to tell him?" 

"What?" 

"Would you ever have told him that you kissed me--if you didn't have to?" 

"I was working my way up to it," she lied. 

"Stop it," he said. "You wanted me. You know it, and so do I. But you didn't know what to do about it, because your mother hates me. You set up a situation where the decision would be taken out of your hands. Once you'd been bad--it was like you had permission to be really bad. And that's where I come in. Being with me is really bad." 

"No, I didn't plan anything." She took a breath. "You have a festering wound on your side. I get that." 

"It's not festering," he said. "I only got it a few hours ago." 

"You don't feel well," she continued doggedly, "but you have to stop this. If you're going to fling accusations around, I'm not going to reassure you. I mean, why should I? You have to figure out how you feel about me on your own." 

"You've been treating me like your dirty little secret," he shot back. "Everything would have been different if you'd been above board. But you couldn't be--because you're under Lorelai's thumb." 

"That's enough," she said sharply. "One more word, and we're finished here. I know you're sick, but when you start badmouthing my mom, I lose interest in you real quick." She tried to get off the bed, but he grabbed her wrist again. 

"Don't go." 

"Jess," she said helplessly, "I don't know what you want from me." 

"I'm nervous," he said. "We have a room, Rory. We're alone. You're all naked and gorgeous-" 

"I'm not naked," she said. "And I'm hardly gorgeous." 

"I've got this great big hole in me, and I'm sore. I'm Jake Barnes, here." 

Rory sighed. "Would it make you feel better if I gave you my shoes?" 

"Yes," he said. 

She took off her saddle shoes and handed them to him. He dropped them on his side of the bed. "Will you lie down with me?" he said. "I want to know that you're there." 

She fit herself under his arm, thinking that she'd been had--he was a manipulative jerk. He'd picked at her and prodded her until she didn't know whether she was coming or going, just to get her off balance, and make her do what he wanted. He held onto her, to make sure she stayed put. He thought that he was guarding her, but he was holding too tight. She felt like she was his captive, even if it was only for a little while, and only because she had let him take hold of her in the first place. Eventually, he would fall asleep, and she'd be able to slip away. She sighed, snuggling close, enjoying the feel of his body next to hers, even in this context. He had told her not to be the kind of girl who asked him what he was thinking, but she already knew what was on his mind. He wasn't preoccupied by unauthorized shopping trips, or crazy detectives, or even her mother. He was thinking about betrayal. He didn't trust her. She had betrayed Dean. She could betray him. Still, he wasn't letting go. He closed his eyes. 

After a while, he said, "I was so lonely, Rory." His voice was hoarse. "I don't want to be alone anymore." 

"I'm here," she said. "Now go to sleep."   
  


~ * ~

To be continued . . .

  



	9. 9

9. 

"You're late," said Paris. Her voice echoed in the great hall. 

In front of them, someone said: "Quiet!" 

Rory took off her heavy backpack. Immediately, she felt freer, lighter. She stowed it under the table. _I should have put that awful thing in my locker_, she thought. "What am I late for now, Paris?" 

"There's a test," Paris said. 

Rory's stomach folded in over itself. "There's a test?" she asked, in a panicky voice. "I don't know anything about a test. What test?" 

There was a loud noise, and Rory jumped. She looked, but all she could see were rows and rows of students in Chilton uniforms. They were all bent studiously over their papers. _Oh, come off it, you guys_, she thought irritably. _As if you're all such serious students! I'm the one who's serious. After Paris, I'm the most serious student of all_! She realized something. "Paris," she said. "Are we speaking a different language?" 

Paris wiped a dab of Clearasil off her nose. "Maybe." 

"Wha-what language is this?" Rory asked. "Paris, are we speaking Latin?" 

"Trust me," said Paris. "Your Latin is not that good." 

"Latin is a dead language," Rory said. 

Paris shrugged. 

"What's the test in?" Rory asked. 

Paris looked smug. "Well, it's sure not in Latin." 

Rory heard the noise again. It was a loud droning, eerily familiar. She couldn't place it, but she knew she'd heard it before. "Oh, God," she said, frightened. "What is that?" 

"You're letting everything slide," said Paris. "You know that, don't you?" 

"What?" said Rory. She was distracted by the horrible noise. It seemed to be getting closer. 

"Girls like you." Paris shook her head. "When will you ever learn?" 

"What?" said Rory. "Girls like who? Me?" 

"Remember what Thomas Wolfe said," Paris added. 

"I can so go home again," said Rory. 

"What do you think is going to happen?" Paris asked. 

"I can hardly hear you," said Rory. 

"Can you trust him?" Paris said loudly. "He could leave you by the side of the road. He could sell you to the highest bidder!" 

"What?" said Rory. Increasingly, she was finding it harder to talk. Her tongue seemed to be swelling up. 

"You have blood on your hands," Paris said. 

Rory looked at her hands. It was true. "Oh, man!" she said. "It's really sticky." 

Paris raised an eyebrow. "Is that all you have to say for yourself? What are you going to do now?" 

"Paris," said Rory. "Are you wearing pajamas?" 

Paris seemed mightily offended. "Dammit, Rory," she said. "You would mention that." 

"I have to go," Rory said. The noise was too close for comfort. 

"Don't go," said Paris. "There are only three essay questions. You could do them standing on your head." 

"I'm running away," Rory said. 

"What a waste," said Paris. 

"I can't help it," said Rory. "I think maybe he needs me." 

"To do what?" said Paris sharply. "Did you ever think of that? Don't get sucked in Rory." 

"I'm not." Rory turned her head. "That noise," she said. 

"It's almost here," said Paris. "If you're going to go, go now. I'll cover for you--if I can." 

"Thanks, Paris," Rory said. "I'm out of here." 

  


Rory opened her eyes. Her heart was racing. She was relieved to be awake. Her hand was on Jess's chest, and she moved her fingers, just to feel him, there and solid beside her. She felt like she wanted to wake him up, and make him talk to her, but that would have been counterproductive. She had waited a long time for him to fall asleep--so long that she had drifted off herself. If only she didn't feel like she was the last person left in the world! 

She listened to him breathe, willing herself to be calm. She watched the steady rise and fall of his chest. Her dream was starting to release its hold now, and the strange scariness of it was fading. She was left only with the feeling that whatever she had been dreaming had bothered her, and in her dream she had opted out of whatever scare her subconscious mind had cooked up. She thought suddenly of Paris, and smiled. She had no idea why she'd just thought of Paris. _If Paris could only see me now_, she thought. _She'd be appalled. Here I am, breast to chest with a scoundrel, in a seedy motel. My guy has an endlessly bleeding side wound, and we're being chased by a mean, scary guy. Where's Anjelica Huston when you need her? At least she got John Cusack a nurse._

When they had first cuddled up together, Jess had been gripping her tightly, but at some point he'd let go, straightening out his arm. Her head was pillowed on it, with one of her arms mashed under her. She couldn't stay like that anymore. Now that she was awake, she was too uncomfortable. Carefully, she slid away and sat up. She had no way of knowing how deeply he was asleep, and she didn't want to wake him. Little by little, she scooted to the edge of the bed, until she could put her feet on the floor. She sat there like that for a second, feeling stiff and sore. Her bra strap had dropped off her shoulder. She pulled it up, and the elastic made a snapping noise. She looked back at Jess, but he hadn't stirred. 

There was some light, spilling around the edges of the curtain, and in the mirror, Rory could see that she had a red mark bisecting her chest. It ran from her shoulder, under her left breast, to her waistband. She poked at it, saying "Ow," under her breath. She was very irritated with Maurice Emmell. She and Jess had really taken a beating from him. Could it be true that he was chasing them at the behest of her mother? She found that hard to believe, but Jess seemed to think it was true. Then again, Jess and her mom had really gotten off on the wrong foot; he would always believe the worst, and Lorelai, for her part, would always believe the worst of Jess. Rory felt torn. Her mother was very important to her, and she loved her dearly. She would not allow Jess to make her feel bad about her mother. But for now, she wanted to be with Jess. 

She looked over at him, wondering again just how injured he was. "I'm Jake Barnes," he had told her earlier, but she knew that was just his way of pretending to be harmless, so that she would lie down with him. Even with a knife wound, he wasn't impotent. In fact, she was pretty sure he'd be able to rise to the occasion, whenever she decided she was ready. Was she ready? He felt so good. She liked touching him, perhaps more than she liked him touching her. She wanted to feel more of him, all around her, and maybe--and at this her face grew warm--in her. But here? Like this? She had made a promise to herself: When the time is right. Could they find the right time, could they make it right together between them, in this seedy motel, in this strange town? She sighed, hugging herself, and feeling sort of sad. Jess looked younger than the last time she'd looked at him. Asleep, he was vulnerable in a way that he never was when he was awake. And he told so many lies! Maybe that was just the way he was; he didn't like himself very much, so he couldn't be honest about anything. 

Jess had left her shoes on the floor, and Rory gathered them up. She had a flash of insight into his character. He wasn't mean on purpose. He was flippant because he was guarded. She wondered had happened to him in his life, to make him like that. Back in Stars Hollow, he hadn't been nice to anyone but her, and she had felt special; she was the only one who could reach him. She was the only one he exchanged more than two words with at a time. Tight lipped, he made himself fascinating, simply because he was a mystery. To have a guy like that say that he loved her, twice--no, three times now! It was exciting. Maybe she should do what he wanted, crawl back on the bed, and snuggle up quietly. 

But he was bleeding! He had been treating her like she was too stupid to function. Never mind Maurice, the freaky detective. Who did Jess think he was--her dad? She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. The world was not full of men waiting behind bushes to abduct girls and drag them away by their hair; she refused to believe that. She had as much right to walk down the street as the next person. Jess was injured. He needed his rest. She was going to the drugstore, and there was nothing he could do about it, so--ha! She carried her shoes into the bathroom, and closed the door carefully behind her. 

Feeling around in the dark, she found the towel she'd used to dry her face. She hadn't folded it; she'd just jammed it on the towel rod. She knelt, and put it along the bottom of the door. She stood up, and ran her hand along the wall until she found the light switch. 

The light was shockingly bright, and it made a noise, a low humming sound. She hoped Jess wouldn't be able to hear. She wet a washcloth, and dabbed her face, wiping around her eyes and mouth. She undid her hair, and combed it with her fingers, wishing for an elastic band. She opened the medicine cabinet. Her mother sometimes went on trips for work, and brought her things from hotels. She found the mending kit, a faded cardboard folder, little bigger than a matchbook. Now she could do something about her hair. She made a braid at either temple, pulling them back sharply. At the back of her head, she joined the two small braids into one. She bit off a length of navy blue thread, and used it to tie back her hair. Now, at least it would be out of her eyes. 

She eyed the shower longingly, but she didn't have time, and she wouldn't like to get clean, and then have to put on the same dirty clothes. Once she took off her tights, they were staying off. There was nothing worse than putting on a pair of dirty tights. She looked at her shirt. There was a smear of blood on the back, and she swallowed queasily. She didn't want to wear it; that was why she had left it off in the first place. She gritted her teeth and pulled it on. She didn't have any choice. She stepped into her saddle shoes, and picked up her sweater. Kicking the towel out of the way, she turned off the light, and opened the door. Holding her breath, she stuck out her head. 

"No," Jess said sharply, and she gasped. He was awake! She was sort of afraid of what he might do, if he caught her sneaking out. 

"No," he said, with less force. "No, no . . ." 

He was still asleep, and dreaming. She took a step toward him, her sweater dangling from her hand. She was curious. She wanted to hear what he was going to say. 

He rolled his head from side to side, and made a warding off gesture with his hand. "Oh, no," he said. 

Rory began to feel bad, as if she were spying on him. She was sure he wouldn't want her to see him like this, but somehow, she was unable to leave him while he was in the middle of a nightmare. Finally, she approached him. "You're okay," she said softly. "Nobody can hurt you here." 

"I can't-" he moaned. 

"You're okay," she said. 

"I can't get away," he said, with some effort. 

"Yes, you can," she said. 

"Where am I?" he asked, sounding young and afraid. 

"You're here with me," she said. "And I love you." 

  


Rory pulled the door to the motel room shut. It closed with a click, and she spun on her heel, realizing too late that she didn't have a key. "Oh, poo," she said. She pressed her fingertips against the door. She had been planning to shop quickly, and be back before Jess awoke. She couldn't remember if she'd even seen a key. Probably, it was still in Jess's pocket. Now she'd have to bang on the door, and wake him up to let her in. It would be a big thing, sneaking away when he had forbidden her to go; if he brought up the issue of trust, her only defense would be that she'd been doing it for him. 

The door to the next room opened, and an older man stepped out. Blinking in the bright sunlight, he straightened his tie. He saw her, and winked. "He stiff you?" 

"Excuse me?" said Rory, thinking that the man was talking about Jess. 

"Next time, get paid up front." 

"I'll take that under advisement," Rory replied. She had no clue what he was talking about. 

"You'll learn," he said. "All the girls do." 

Rory was finding the man to be distasteful; she wasn't sure why. She also wasn't sure whether or not she was supposed to stay and exchange pleasantries with him. Her gut was telling her to leave, but years of social conditioning prevented her from turning her back. She was a polite girl. At home, she would have been friendly to anyone who spoke to her. Once again, she was reminded of the fact that she didn't really know how to behave. She decided to take the middle road. "Have a nice day," she said, and made her exit. 

"You too, sweetheart," the man called after her. 

Jess had taken a room at the back of the motel. Rory had to walk around the building and through the parking lot, to get to the sidewalk. She looked up and down the street, completely disoriented. The motel seemed to be in the middle of a residential area, and she couldn't remember which way they'd come, or how to find the business district. She wanted to take a walk by the ocean too, but she had no idea which way it was. She started up the street. The first person she met--the first woman she met--she would ask directions. 

The street was very clean, and densely packed with houses. Rory wondered if they were summer houses, or if people lived there all year long. The houses looked old, as if they had been built around World War II, but they were tidy, and well looked after, with bright awnings and nice gardens. The sidewalk was lined with big concrete planters, and she smiled at the colorful flowers. She thought Avon seemed like a pretty nice town. It had a certain feel to it, she couldn't put her finger on it, but it was sort of like walking through a movie set. She passed a little cottage with a carriage lamp on the front lawn. Twined around the lamp was a mess of Morning Glories, but the flowers were closed. She looked at her watch. It was almost three o'clock. She was surprised. She must have slept a long time, in the crook of Jess's arm. She didn't feel clean, and she had a faint headache, but other than that, she felt good. 

She was enjoying the peace and quiet, so she was dismayed when a car drove up beside her. The power window on the passenger side rolled down, and the man from the motel called across the seat. "Hop in. I'll give you a ride." 

"No, thank you," Rory said. She sped up. 

"Come on," he said. 

"I don't need a ride." 

"I don't know why you think you can be so choosy," he said, sounding irritated. "You're not that pretty." 

Rory was walking quickly now, with her shoulders hunched. "Go away!" she said, out of the side of her mouth. 

"You have a personality like a bucket of worms," the man said. He sounded mad. Rory was starting to get scared. She made a deal with herself that if he didn't go away, she was going to knock on the door to one of these houses. She had a thought that made her feel slightly sick to her stomach. What if no one was home? Girls scream and scream, Jess had said. No one helps them. Why had he told her that? Had he been trying to undermine her? Now she didn't know what to do! 

She turned a corner, and the man in the car followed, keeping pace. He yelled something ugly, and this time, she didn't respond. What did he want? Why wouldn't he go away? She heard the strangest noise. There was a tiny white cottage with green awnings, on a corner lot. Rory could see into the small back yard, because there was no fence. Behind the house was what appeared to be a shower stall, attached to the house's back wall. The shower was running, and there was a woman in it, Rory could see her feet, and the top of her head. She was washing her hair. Rory was amazed. She had never before seen this sort of outdoor shower. 

Quickly, before she could second guess herself, she ran up the lawn. When she got to the shower, she knocked on the side of the stall. The woman opened her eyes, startled. "What happened?" she said, sounding alarmed. 

"I'm sorry." Rory was out of breath, not so much from running, but from being scared. "Ma'am--I need help. Will you help me?" 

"But I'm naked," said the woman. "I'm taking a shower!" 

Rory knew how to make the woman help her. "There's a man," she said. That was all she had to say. The woman looked at Rory, and saw that she was just a girl. She turned off the water, and put on her robe. 

"Where's the man?" she said, sounding belligerent. "Where the hell is he?" The woman was formidable. With her hair full of shampoo and sticking up every which way, she looked like a gorgon. Rory pointed at the car. 

"You there!" screamed the woman. "I'm calling the police!" The man was already driving away. "Hah," the woman said. She sounded pleased. 

_Hah_, thought Rory. _So there, Jess Mariano_. 

  


The woman who rescued Rory turned out to be named Maude. "After Maude Gonne," she explained, ducking her head in embarrassment. Apparently her parents had been big on Yeats. "I think they wanted me to have yellow hair." Her hair was brown. "Did you know that blonds are going extinct? The gene for blondness is recessive. Not enough people have it." 

"That's very interesting," Rory responded politely. Feeling nervous, she was finding it hard to concentrate. Maude got back in the shower, so she could rinse the shampoo out of her eyes. She directed Rory to the pharmacy; it was two streets over, and one block up from the little white and green cottage. Maude's house would be Rory's landmark, now. If she could find her way back there, she would be able to retrace her steps to the motel. 

Rory began to relax when she got to the pharmacy. It was cool and dark inside. The whole place was paneled in glossy wood. She thought some of the stuff on the shelves looked to have been there since the store originally opened--back in 1947. She would have liked to have had time to browse. She corralled the pharmacist near his drug counter. He seemed bored, and glad to come out from behind the bulletproof glass to talk to her. He was a big softie, with black glasses like Buddy Holly. His hair was a sandy red. 

"Theoretically, hypothetically," she asked him, "say someone had a little cut on his side. How would you bandage that?" 

He gave Rory a hard look. "I'd take him to the hospital." 

"Okay," said Rory. "That's a given. I'm just saying, what if, for no particular reason, you couldn't go to the hospital. What would you do?" She kept thinking of Gary Busey, in _The Buddy Holly Story_, and the scene where he knocked out his front teeth, just before he had to go on live TV. He had glued his teeth back in with chewing gum. Rory looked closely at the pharmacist's teeth. They seemed real. 

"Why can't you go to the hospital?" he asked her, scratching his head. 

"Ah," said Rory. "He has a phobia?" 

"Then he shouldn't have gotten cut," said the pharmacist. 

"Now he tells me," she said. 

"Why are you mixed up in all this?" 

"All what?" said Rory. "This is a hypothetical discussion." 

"Sure," said the pharmacist, his voice dripping with scepticism. "And you want to buy these bandages just for the fun of it." 

"Exactly," said Rory. "In case I ever find myself in such a situation, I want to be prepared." 

The pharmacist threw his hands up in the air. "Young lady, if you know someone who's injured, don't you think you should call 911?" 

"I don't know anyone who's actually injured," Rory insisted. "I just like to know things. Like how to bandage a little cut, about two inches in length, that's sort of oozing." 

"A person can only lose so much blood," he said. "Nobody has an unlimited supply." 

"I'm aware of that," Rory said patiently. "But how do I stop the bleeding? I mean, if there was some bleeding going on--how would I stop that?" 

"For your phantom patient, who doesn't actually exist?" 

"Yup." 

He sighed. "I hope this guy doesn't die on you," he said seriously. "Remember what happened to Sid and Nancy." 

"Oh, God," she moaned. 

"Yeah," he said heavily. "You get where I'm going with this, right?" 

"Yeah," she said. Sid Vicious, the front man for the Sex Pistols, had stabbed his girlfriend Nancy Spungen at the Chelsea Hotel. They were stoned, and had sat around while Nancy bled to death. 

"So," said the pharmacist. "How does the hospital look now?" 

"Better and better." Rory put a hand over her eyes. In a small voice, she said, "He won't go. If I call, he'll be mad." 

"He'll get over it," the man said. "When he's all stitched up, and good as new." 

Rory shook her head. "You don't understand. He doesn't even know I'm here. That's gonna make him mad, too." 

"One of those, huh?" 

"What?" said Rory. 

"Why are you with this guy?" he asked. "A nice girl like you?" 

"He--we're not like that. That's not the way it is." 

"Uh-huh." He seemed disgusted. "And here, I can't even get a date." 

"Pardon?" said Rory. 

"Nothing," said the pharmacist. "It's just one of those things. For every ass out there, there's a beautiful girl, ready to go to throw herself in front of a train for him. Me--all I'd ask of a girl is that she be nice to my mother." 

"Oh," said Rory. 

"Look at me. I have a good job. I'm a nice guy. So, I'm a little on the fat side." 

"No," said Rory, because it was the polite thing to say. 

"I know I'm no George Clooney." 

"Who is?" she said. 

"George Clooney," said the pharmacist. 

"Movie stars make people have unrealistic body images," Rory offered. "They're a menace to society. You're a nice person." 

"That's my point," he said. "Girls like you don't want to be with nice people. You want to be with the tough guys." 

"It's the last vestiges of Darwinism," she said. 

"Oh brother," he said. "And I wear glasses, too." 

"Your glasses are nice," she said. "They remind me of Buddy Holly." 

"Rave on," he said, grinning. "So don't I deserve a relationship? But where are all the girls?" 

"Maybe they're at home, waiting for you to call," she said. 

"No," he said, and now he seemed sad. "They are not at home. They're all like you--running around with guys who are trouble." 

"So," said Rory quickly. "How about those bandages?" 

"Whatever," he said morosely. "I'll set you up." 

"Thanks," said Rory gratefully. 

"But, call a doctor." 

"I will," she said. 

"Or be prepared to dig a very big hole." 

"Hey," said Rory. "I promise it's not that bad." 

"Don't worry about it," he said. "This is New Jersey." 

  


Rory left the drugstore with a white paper bag in her arms. She'd spent more than she intended, but she had wanted to make sure she had everything. She stood in the sun, getting her bearings. 

A few years back, Lane had been on a Buddy Holly kick. That was when Rory had seen _The Buddy Holly Story_; she'd watched it with Lane. Lorelai had wandered in, and looked sadly at the TV screen. "Gary Busey's finest moment," she'd said, sighing, and Lane had agreed. But Lane was of course more interested in the music. Her stance on Buddy Holly was that he was the first of the great concept artists. She thought that if he hadn't died in the plane crash with Ritchie Valens and The Big Bopper, he would have gone on to make brilliant studio recordings. For a while, Lane had played Buddy Holly songs day and night. They were catchy, and the lyrics were easy to remember. Now one of them was stuttering though Rory's brain: 

'Flying across the desert in a TWA   
I saw a woman walking across the sand   
She been walking thirty miles en route to Bombay   
To reach a brown eyed handsome man   
Her destination was a brown eyed handsome man . . .' 

Rory could practically hear the lead guitar in her head. That was the way Buddy Holly tunes were; they stuck with you. They made you want to laugh and dance, or at least spin around. Thinking of the song, even though she was thinking of it because of Jess(his brown eyes were the eyes she was thinking of), made her realize how much she missed Lane. She and Lane had been friends forever; it was hard to be so far away from her. 

'Way back in history three thousand years   
Back ever since the world began   
There's been a whole lot of good women shedding tears   
For a brown eyed handsome man   
A lot of trouble was a brown eyed handsome man . . .' 

Rory didn't want to be one of those girls. Everyone knew the type. The kind of girl who dropped her best friend because she was all caught up in a relationship with a man. The kind of girl who forgot who she was, and became nothing more than a pale shadow hanging on a man's arm. You already are that kind of girl, she told herself. This whole drama you're mixed up in--this is Jess's drama. Your drama was over the moment Dean left you in the bushes. 

She stopped on the sidewalk, feeling cold. It was as if she had walked through a dense patch of shadow. All of this frightening chaos--Jess bleeding and scared, Dean beaten and scary-- it was all because of her. She was the one who was ruining other people. It was absurd for Jess to say that he was ruining her, when he had gotten himself into all this trouble because he wanted to provide for her. And Dean--he was just some poor sap who had trusted her to take care of his heart. "Oh stop it!" she said crossly. "Who do you think you are? A girl in a movie?" 

She was tired again, from thinking too much. Her thoughts went around and around. _Oh_, she thought, her throat tight, _I wish had someone to talk to_! 

That was when she saw the phone booth. 

  


"Excuse me," she said to the clerk at the cash register. She was back in the drugstore. "Would you--could I get some change?" 

"No can do," the clerk said, without looking up. She was reading _Cosmo_. 

"I need to make a phone call," Rory said. 

"You have to buy something," said the clerk. She wet her finger and flipped the page. 

"I already did buy something," Rory said irritably. "A lot of somethings, in fact." 

"You have to buy something new," said the clerk. 

"Why?" 

"The register is closed. Before--the register was open. You could have had all the change you wanted, then." 

"All right," said Rory, sighing. "Oh! Are there any Asbury Park postcards?" 

"'Greetings from Asbury Park?'" said the clerk, 

"Yeah," said Rory. 

"Like on the Springsteen album cover?" 

"That's the one," Rory said. 

The clerk snapped her gum. "Sure." 

"Great," said Rory. 

"In Asbury Park," the clerk said. 

"Everybody's a comedian," said Rory. 

"This is Avon," the clerk clarified. 

Rory sighed. "Shoot. I wanted to send one to a friend." 

"Send her one of those," said the clerk, looking up finally. She pointed to a rack filled with postcards. "Send her one that says: 'Greetings from Avon-by-the-Sea.'" 

Rory found the card. "Neat," she said. "I didn't know there was a whole series." The postcard was similar to the Springsteen album cover. Looking at it, Rory felt an inappropriate sense of anticipation, as if she were on a real holiday, and not hunkered down and hiding out. Each big letter in the words 'Avon-by-the-Sea' contained a photograph of something you could do for fun in Avon, like take a walk on the boardwalk, hand-in-hand with your sweetie, or go to the beach, or sit around in a fancy hotel, sipping from an umbrella drink 

"There's one with a map, that shows where they made the beach bigger," the clerk said. 

"Where is the beach, anyways?" Rory asked. 

"East," said the clerk. She pointed over her shoulder. "That way." She could have been pointing anywhere. 

"All right," Rory said, dropping it. She needed to get back to the motel, anyhow. She picked out a 'Greetings' postcard. "Can I buy a stamp?" 

The clerk made an irritated noise, and put down her magazine. Rory saw that she was reading an article entitled: _'The #1 Thing He Craves in Bed.'_ Rory wondered what the number one thing was. It might be good to know. Then again, who was the 'he' in the title of the article? Every guy was different, she reflected, thinking about Jess, Dean, and even Tristan. How could a magazine like _Cosmo_ see into the heart of a guy like Jess? Or any of them? The clerk found a stamp, and stuck it on the postcard for Rory. 

"Thanks," Rory said. "Can I borrow your pen?" 

"Nope," she said. "But you can buy one." 

"Oh," said Rory. 

"People always take the pen. Then when I need one--where is my pen? I don't have one." 

"That sounds like a real dilemma." 

"You see my point," the clerk said. "So, you wanna pen, too?" 

"Yeah," said Rory. "I don't care what color." 

"How about pink?" 

"Not pink," said Rory hastily. 

"No one wants the pink," said the clerk. "Poor pink pen. It makes me sad." 

"Yeah, that's sad," said Rory. "Sadder than _The Velveteen Rabbit_." 

"But not as sad as _Titanic_." 

"Of course not," said Rory. "What could be sadder than Popsicle-Leo? So, my change. Can you give me a lot of coins?" 

"I need my change," the clerk whined. "Where am I gonna get change?" 

"Hey!" said Rory. "The whole point of this exercise was for me to get some change!" 

"Fine," she said. "But don't blame me if I run out." 

"I won't," said Rory, smiling. 

"Not you," the clerk said. "Him." 

Rory looked over her shoulder. The pharmacist was standing right there. "I told her to give you the change," he said. 

"You did?" said Rory. 

"I nodded at her," he said. 

"Uh-huh," said the clerk. She snapped her gum again. 

"Nina," said the pharmacist. 

"Oh, no," said Nina. "This is a new piece of gum. I am not taking it out of my mouth." She handed Rory a big pile of change. Rory had nowhere to put it, so she put it in her paper bag. 

"Thank you," she said to both of them. 

"Come again," Nina said listlessly, because her boss was standing over her. 

"Call someone," said the pharmacist. "Or else, save your pennies." 

"What for?" said Rory, holding her bag by the bottom, so it wouldn't break. 

"The shovel," he said. "How else will you dig that hole?" 

  


There was a mailbox on the sidewalk in front of the drugstore, near the curb. Rory got the pen and the postcard out of the bag. A car zipped by, kicking up a wind, and she spun around, stuffing down her skirt before the whole street got an eyeful. Nobody but Jess was allowed look at her underwear, and him only if he behaved himself. She tucked the bag between her feet, and leaned against the mailbox. On address side of the card, she wrote: 'Lane Kim.' She stopped. What was she doing? She couldn't send Lane a postcard--not to her house. Her mother would intercept it, read it, and throw it away. What had she been planning to say, anyhow? "_Dear Lane, how are you? I am fine. Jess got in a knife fight and has a Fisher King-like wound to his side. We are being chased by a nutty detective who for some reason drives a classic car. Don't ask me how he expects to blend in on his stake-outs in such a distinctive car. I know you don't like Jess, but should I do it with him? Sometimes I want to sleep with him, and sometimes I just want to kick him. By the way, Dean and I are broken up, now. Would you check and see if he's in jail? Remember my life plan? That's on hold--maybe permanently_." 

She chewed on the end of the pen, thinking. She couldn't send the card to Lane, there was no way. She crossed out Lane's name, took a deep breath, and wrote 'Lorelai Gilmore' instead. She filled in the address. She didn't know what else to write. She opened the mailbox. She wasn't giving up on Jess. She wasn't betraying him. It was a small thing really, like the light from a flashlight on a dark night. She and Jess weren't staying in Avon, they were moving on. It would take a few days for the card to reach Stars Hollow. Her mother wouldn't know where they were--she'd know where they'd been. It was a way to send her a message: _I am fine_. She dropped the card. She let go of the handle, and the heavy door clanged shut. She pulled open the mailbox, the way she always did when she mailed a letter, and stared into the box. There was nothing to see but black. The card was well and truly mailed. She turned her back, and walked a little ways up the street. 

Distracted and nervous, not really aware she was doing it, under her breath she sang another verse of 'Brown Eyed Handsome Man': 

'Well, the beautiful daughter couldn't make up her mind   
Between a doctor and a lawyer man   
Her mother told her, "darling, go out and find yourself   
A brown eyed handsome man   
That's what your daddy is, a brown eyed handsome man . . ."' 

Of course she had been planning it all along. That was why she had gotten so much change. She went into the phone booth, and pulled the door shut behind her. 

  


The phone rang fourteen times; she counted. She wondered why the answering machine didn't pick up. All she wanted was to listen the outgoing message. She had to hear her mother's voice. She would listen to the machine--she wouldn't say a word!--and then she would hang up. There was a click as the phone was picked up. "Hello?" 

Rory bit her tongue, holding the receiver close to her ear. 

"Hello?" The voice was uncharacteristically gentle. "Is anybody there?" The world around her narrowed, and there was only his soft voice at the other end of the line. "Is that you, Rory? I know you're there, honey. I can hear you breathing." 

Her breath caught in her throat. What was he still doing there? 

"Tell me where you are," he said. "I'll come get you." 

A tear dripped down her cheek. 

Luke continued, "Is Jess with you, Rory?" 

What was he doing in her house? Had something bad happened? Rory couldn't find out, because she wasn't able to speak. 

"Why won't you talk?" he asked. "Are you afraid?" There was a pause, then: "Is he hurting you?" Luke sounded bleak. 

Horrified, Rory hung up the phone. 

  


She knocked lightly, and the door flew open. Jess stood there, shirtless. He had removed his bandage, and the wound was like a gaping mouth. "Where the hell have you been?" he said. He grabbed her arm, and yanked her into the darkness. He kicked the door shut. "I told you not to go anywhere!" He took the bag from her, and threw it on the table. 

"I went to the store," she said, struggling. "Let go of me!" 

He shoved her into the chair. 

"Don't do that!" she cried, upset at being manhandled. 

"Shut up! Do you want everyone to hear us?" He went to the window, lifted the curtain, and looked out. "Dammit! Why did you do that? We have to keep a low profile, Rory!" 

"Why are you being like this?" 

He took hold of both armrests, and pulled her in the chair, so that she was close to the bed. He sat, and they were knee to knee. "I told you not to go out," he said angrily. "What was I supposed to think? That you'd left? That you'd been kidnaped?" 

"Nothing happened!" she said. She was finding it hard to look at anything but his cut. It looked red and sore. She had already been anxious; now she was finding it hard to breathe. She tried to stand up, but he put a heavy hand on her shoulder, to hold her down. 

"I didn't know where you were," he said. "I was worried!" 

"There's nothing to worry about!" she said sharply. "All I did was go to the drugstore. I came right back!" 

"God," he said. "What am I going to do with you?" 

"You don't have to do anything!" she said. "And don't you yell at me either!" 

"Rory," he said. "I woke up, and you were gone." 

"That's no excuse," she said childishly. 

He peered at her. "Have you been crying?" 

"No," she said. 

"You've been crying," he said. "What happened?" 

"Nothing happened!" she said. 

"Rory," he started, but she cut him off. 

"If you yell at me again," she said, "even one more time--I'm leaving you." She poked him in the side, just above the cut. 

"Yow!" He fell back against the bed, gasping in pain. Rory jumped to her feet, knocking over the chair. 

"Rory!" Jess said breathlessly. 

She ran into the bathroom and slammed the door.   
  


~ * ~

To be continued . . .


	10. 10

10.

Jess had left up the toilet seat. She banged it down, and the lid as well. She sat. She crossed her legs. She crossed her arms. She tucked her chin to her chest, stifling a sob. She would not sit in the bathroom and cry like some idiot in a teen romance!

Jess didn't knock, which she had been expecting, but he did say, "Hey, in there." She could tell he was standing close to the door, because his voice was soft.

She looked up. "Go away, please. The bathroom is occupied."

"Open the door, Rory."

She hugged herself, feeling miserable. She hadn't locked herself in the bathroom to make him stand out there and say things, or apologize, or anything like that. She had wanted to be away from him, and there was no place else to go. She had been afraid to run out of the room. He might have dragged her back. She would have been humiliated.

"I'm having my quiet time," she called. "Go away."

"What if I need to use the can?"

"You don't," she said.

"How do you know?"

"Because then you would have said 'I need to use the can.'"

"I need to use the can."

"Wait your turn," she said. "I'm using it right now."

"I'm desperate," he said. "You know that little dance? I'm doing it."

"That's unfortunate."

"I can't hold it."

"You just went," she said.

"How do you know?"

"Well, duh," she said, sniffling. "You left the seat up."

"Open the door," he said. "Please come out."

"This is my alone time. Stop bugging me."

"Come out here, and have your alone time with me."

"Jess!"

"I won't say a word," he said. "I just want to be able to see you."

"No."

"Come on, Rory."

"I like it in here," she said. "All by myself."

"You're being very antisocial."

"That's extremely funny, coming from you."

"Rory," he said. "I'm sorry, okay?"

"Fine," she said. "Thank you. Now go away."

"I didn't mean to scare you," Jess said. "I'm really sorry I did. I didn't mean to grab you, either. I won't do it again."

She got up and stood in front of the door. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

"I'm not that guy, Rory. I won't be. I am promising you that. I'm not the kind of guy who scares girls, just because he can."

"But you did do it," she said.

"I know," he said. "But you're safe with me, Rory. You're safe from all that."

"I didn't come in here so you'd stand there and beg me to come out."

"No," he said sadly. "You wanted a big door between us."

_x_

"Where did you go?"

"Nowhere," she said. She was sitting on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. She had turned off the light because it was more peaceful in the dark.

"What did you do?" She could tell that he was sitting on the floor, too. He had to be right up against the door.

"Nothing."

"What did you get?" he asked. She knew he got to his feet when she heard him grunt. He was gone for a second. "Oh, boy," he said, returning. "Presents." She heard the rustle of the paper bag. "I guess you went to the pharmacy."

"Yes," she said. "The pharmacist had glasses just like Buddy Holly."

"Cool," he said. "Big sterile dressings, big bandages. Oh, good, you got alcohol."

"Don't drink it," she said.

"Understood." She could imagine his grin. "You got a razor."

"Yes," said Rory. "That's for you."

"I'm not that hairy," he said. "These dressings aren't adhesive, anyways."

"It's for your face," she said.

"You want me to shave?"

"Yes," she said.

"I guess it would be kind of scratchy for you."

"Yes."

"Does this mean you're coming out?"

"Not right this second."

"Does this mean you're going to kiss me?"

"Not right this second."

"But maybe later?"

"Maybe."

"I can live with that," he said.

_x_

"Who's in the next room?" she said.

"Pardon?" It sounded like he had been dozing.

"Do you know? Did you see him?"

"Why? Does it matter?"

"No," she said.

"There's a woman, a guy, and two screaming kids."

"I don't hear any screaming."

"They went out. For dinner, I guess. I saw them go when I was looking for you."

"How much did you look?" she asked.

"Not too much," he said. "I was bleeding everywhere. I came back to try and do something about it. Then you came."

"There was a guy," she said.

"Which guy?"

"Next door."

"When?"

"When I left."

"Okay," he said. "And?"

"Nothing," she said. "I guess he checked out?"

"Was he bothering you?"

"No," she said. "I just wanted to make sure he was gone."

"I see."

"That's all."

"Rory," he said. "Why's there a pen in this bag?"

"It was a free," she said. "They were giving them out to everyone."

"But it's not a tourist-y pen," he said. "It's a Bic pen."

"They were giving them away," she insisted. "To promote literacy."

"Ah," he said.

"It was a big thing," she said. "I really wanted a pink one, but they ran out just when I got to the counter, so I had to take black."

"What did you write?" he said.

"I didn't write anything."

"Did you need to write something? It's okay to tell me."

"I wrote some graffiti," she said. "In a phone booth." She bit her lip.

He didn't remark on the phone booth comment. "Did you write: 'Help! I'm being kidnapped by Jess Mariano?'"

"The world does not revolve around you," she said.

"Point taken."

"Stop bringing up kidnapping every six seconds. You're obsessed with the subject."

"What did you write?"

"RG, heart, JM."

"That's very sweet," he said. "And who did you call?"

"Luke," she said, in a small voice. "I called Luke."

"What did he say?"

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I didn't talk," she said quickly. "I hung up."

"But you could talk," he said. "If you come out of there, we can make all the phone calls you like."

"I don't want to talk," she said.

"Come out, Rory."

"I called my mother," she said. "But Luke answered."

"Do you want to talk to Lorelai?"

"I don't know," she said.

"Luke was at your house?"

"Luke said-" She stopped. What could she possibly say? That Luke was afraid for her? That he thought Jess was hurting her? "Never mind," she said.

_x_

After a while, he said: "Thanks for picking up all that stuff."

"You're welcome."

"Why don't you come out, and help me get fixed up?"

"You're airing out your cut, now," she said. "You're letting it breathe."

"Is that the recommended treatment?"

"Four out of five experts agree that a hospital is the recommended treatment," she said, leaning heavily on the word 'hospital.'

"You consulted that many people?"

"Yes," she said. "I asked everyone I met."

"Good for you," he said. "And here I thought you weren't keeping a low profile."

"Jess," she said. "I'm worried about you. I think you're going to get infected."

"I'll be fine, Rory," he said. "It's not a big cut. People have survived way worse."

"If you get gangrene, they'll have to amputate."

"That would be gross," he said.

"They'd have to amputate your side."

He laughed.

"How will you function, without your side? I don't think you're looking at the big picture."

"Sure I am," he said. "They're doing amazing things with prosthetics, these days."

"What happens now?" she asked.

"With respect to what?"

She sighed. "How are you planning on making restitution to the Hartzke brothers?"

"Oh, that," he said.

"Yes, that."

"I'm meeting with them tonight," he said.

"Tonight? When were you going to tell me?"

"I'm telling you now."

"Fine," she said irritably. "Continue."

"Are you going to open the door?" he asked.

"No way," she said.

"Just checking. Okay. Here's what I think is going to happen. I'm going to say that I'm really sorry. They're going to yell at me and be all mean and threatening. Then they're going to give me something to do, which I won't get paid for, and we'll be even."

"That's how it's going to go?"

"Rory, if it goes that smoothly, I'll be extremely thankful."

"What if it all goes bad?"

"It won't," he said. "It's going to be fine."

_x_

On the other side of the door, Jess was singing. His voice was thin and a little uneven. Not too deep. When he sang, he sounded a lot younger than he normally did. She could imagine him in a choir, at school, when he was a little boy. It was a little creepy, the disembodied voice, coming through the door. Despite that, and the inherent weirdness of Jess singing, she was somewhat charmed. It was a brave little song. It was a song about young lovers starting their lives, sticking together against the odds. The song was a promise. It was romantic. Rory sat up on her heels. The sound of his voice covered what he was doing. He was up to something.

Slowly, the bathroom door swung open. Jess was keeling in the threshold. With a flourish, he finished the song.

"Hey!" She threw up a hand to shield her eyes from the light.

"You're being kind of psycho," he said. He had one of the sterile pads covering his wound. As far as Rory could see, only the stickiness of the blood kept it in place. He needed to have a bandage wrapped around his rib cage. "It's time to come out." He held out his hand, and after a moment, she took it.

"You can even do the Buddy Holly accent," she said.

"I'm very versatile." They got to their feet.

"I want you to know, this doesn't mean anything," she said. "I had just decided to come out on my own."

"Of course you had," he said. He let go of her, and she squeezed past him.

"If you think I'm impressed, I'm not. Even I can spring a lock with the inside of a pen."

"You can still be mad," Jess said, tossing the ink cartridge in the general direction of the dresser. "Just be mad out here with me."

_x_

He was stretched out on the bed. She was standing over him, staring at the cut. "It was a third floor walk-up," he was saying. "And we couldn't get the sofa up the stairs. So we made a harness out of ropes, and pulled it up the side of the building."

"Uh-huh," she said.

"We brought it in through the balcony. But Bruno got his hand caught."

"Oh, God," she said, feeling weak.

"He got this major gash. It was amazingly gross."

"This is a charming story." She was kicking herself for leaving the sewing kit on the bathroom sink.

"So, Bruno goes into the bathroom, and we're all, like: 'Where the hell is Bruno?' Then he comes back. He had stitched the cut up himself!"

Rory sat down suddenly, right on the floor. Black spots danced in front of her eyes.

"Are you okay?" he said.

"I can't do this," she said. "This is insane!"

"It's the only way to stop the bleeding."

She shook her head. "No, no, no."

"It'll be fine," he said.

"It's not sterilized."

"You soaked the thread and needle in alcohol, and washed your hands in it. If I was a soldier on a battlefield-"

He had already made the soldier argument. She didn't need to hear it again. "I can't sew," she said.

"This isn't high fashion," he said. "Stitch, stitch, and we're done. Don't you watch _ER_?"

"Ugh," she said. "And the sewing issue is a problem, in my opinion."

"Jeez," he said irritably. "Don't you even know one simple stitch? It's not some great feminist statement, not being able to sew."

"It wasn't intended to be," she said stiffly.

"Or cook," he said. "Why can't you cook? It's not all about serving some guy. Even I can cook. Don't you want to make nice food for yourself to enjoy?"

"Thanks for the critique of my life skills," she said.

"Have you ever even had a job?"

"Yes!" she said. "Stop picking on me!"

"Sew it up," he said. "Get it over with."

"Fine," she snapped. She hauled herself to her feet. "Shut up and be still."

_x_

"Hey, tough guy."

"What?"

"Are you unconscious?"

"I think I'm awake."

"You really are the master manipulator," she said. "I'm on to you, now."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he said. He looked down at his side. "Shit, that hurts." He looked at her. "Sorry."

"I don't care if you swear," she said. "I just care if you swear at me."

"I don't know," he said. "You're so refined, what with your matching underwear and all." He let out a breath. "Woof! That really, really hurts."

"You have to sit up."

He swung his feet to the floor, and she leaned in, wrapping the bandage around his middle. "How's that?" she asked, stepping back.

"I feel like a million bucks," he said, smiling a smile that was really more of a grimace.

"This is so, so crazy," she said. She knelt in front of him, putting her hands on his knees. "You are so, so crazy."

He bent forward, cradling his stomach, and tried to kiss her. She leaned back, out of reach. "I don't feel clean."

"You could have a bath."

"Then I'd have to get dressed in the same dirty clothes," she said. "No thanks."

"I have to go out," he said. "I'll get you something to wear."

"Go out?" she said. "Don't go out."

"Did you eat?" he asked. "Before?"

"No," she said. "I forgot, actually."

"I don't want you to have another episode of low blood sugar psychosis."

"Very funny," she said.

"You already passed out once. And you sort of passed out a little while ago, too."

"Hah," she said. "That was a perfectly reasonable reaction to an incredibly unreasonable situation."

"So," he said. "You could soak in the tub. I know for a fact that women love to do that. Why don't you rinse out your underwear, and stuff, while you have the opportunity?"

"You want me to rinse out my underwear?"

"You're the one who brought up the issue of being clean. Relax. I'm not gonna make you do mine."

"You're going to get food, and clothes," she said. "And you want me to get all the clothes I do have wet?"

"I won't be a minute," he said. "You can dress in something fresh." He smiled, chucking her under the chin. The plan sounded very reasonable. Entirely too reasonable.

"Fine," she said sweetly. "When you come back, I'll rinse everything out."

"Do it now," he said.

"Why?"

He shrugged. "Then it'll be done."

"I'd rather do it later," she said. She crossed her arms over her chest.

"You don't believe I'm bringing you fresh clothes."

"That's about the size of it," she said. "I think you want me to have nothing to wear, so I'll have to stay here when you go for your meeting."

"You are staying here."

"Oh, no, I'm not."

"I'm putting my foot down," he said.

"You go ahead and do that. Then pick it up and put it down again. You can do that all night, for all I care. It doesn't change the fact that I'm still going with you."

"Rory," he said. "You can't. These guys are nuts."

"I'm not going to sit around wondering what's happening to you."

"Nothing is going to happen to me," he said.

"The last time you went off on your own, you got stabbed."

"I got a minute incision in my side!"

"Whereas, when I went off on my own, I had a swell time, and nothing at all happened."

"Yeah, well--I'm not so sure you're telling the truth about that."

"Nothing happened!"

"Why were you so concerned about the guy in the next room?"

She groaned. He acted like he wasn't paying attention. In reality, he absorbed it all. She found that quality to be quite irritating. "I'm going," she said.

"Dammit," said Jess. "I'm using the leftover bandages to tie you to that chair."

"No, you're not," she said quickly. She shivered. He wouldn't, would he?

"You're just being perverse," he said.

"No, you are," she said.

"You only want to come because I'm telling you not to, and you want to prove that you don't have to do what I say."

"I'm coming," she said firmly. "I'll stay in the car. I'll be practically invisible. They won't even know I'm there."

"I have a very bad feeling about this."

She played her trump card. "Well," she said. "I can always sit around all night and wait for Maurice Emmell to come and kidnap me. If that's what you really want."

_x_

He put on his jacket. "I guess I'll get myself a new shirt, too," he said, looking in the mirror.

"How did Whosis cut you without getting your jacket?" she asked, over the sound of running water. She was filling the tub.

"'Whosis?'" he said with a smile. "Oh, you mean 'What's His Name?'"

"Hmm," she agreed, going into the bathroom. "No bubbles," she said sadly, coming back out.

"I wasn't wearing it then," he said. "It was on the hood of the car."

"What happened to the toothbrushes?" she asked, stalling. She didn't want him to go anywhere. They didn't need food, and clothes weren't important. After everything he had said earlier, she thought it was silly that he suddenly needed to go out. What if he never came back?

"Must still be in the car," he said. "You want me to go look?"

"Please."

After he was gone, she went into the bathroom. She kicked off her shoes. She unbuttoned her shirt, and took it off. She unhooked her skirt, and let it fall to the floor. She reached behind her, and unclasped her bra. She tossed it on the counter. She pulled her tights and her panties off in one quick motion. She heard him enter the room just as she was stepping into the tub.

"Rory?" he called.

She sat down, and wrapped her arms around her legs. Her breasts were mashed against her thighs. "In here," she answered.

"I found one," he said, coming into the bathroom. "And the toothpaste. Whoa! I didn't realize you were naked."

"Stay," she said. "I want you to stay and keep me company."

_x_

"You're putting me in sort of an awkward situation." He wouldn't look at her.

"Don't you want to watch me have a bath?"

He laughed. "Rory, I would pretty much watch you do anything. I'd watch you peel potatoes."

"What's the problem?"

He sighed. Gingerly, he leaned down and picked up the clothes she had shed. He put her skirt on the counter. He separated her underpants from her tights. He held the panties by the waistband, looking at them.

"Don't stare at my panties," she said. "Put them away."

"I'm mesmerized," he said. "All those little hearts."

"Quit it," she said, upset. "If you want to go, go."

"That's what I mean," he said. "You're being sort of fickle. I'm never really sure, with anything I do, whether it's the right thing. Sometimes, I touch you, and it seems like you don't like it. And now you're naked." He swallowed audibly. "There's a sort of running commentary in my head. It's like I'm describing everything to a judge."

"What?"

"And then she asked me to watch her naked in the tub," he said, as if he were talking to someone else. He continued in a different voice: "She asked you to watch her naked in the tub? That strains credulity. Why would Miss Gilmore do such a bizarre thing? Isn't it true you forced her to get naked, Mister Mariano? Isn't it true Rory Gilmore didn't want to be with you at all?"

"Stop that," she said, hurt. "I would never do that to you."

"It's what I have to think about, Rory. That's the way the world works."

"No, it's not," she said. "Not if we don't want it to."

Carefully, he got to his knees at the side of the tub. He ran his finger along her arm.

"You have to start trusting me, Jess."

"Can I wash your hair?"

"I'd like that."

_x_

She reminded him not to use the glass they'd used to soak the needle and thread. He unwrapped the other, and used it to rinse her hair. He reached past her knees, to get at the little bottle of shampoo. Rory turned her head away, feeling shy. It was almost too sexy, being naked while he was still dressed. He squeezed a dab of shampoo into his hand, and worked it through her hair.

"Don't get your stitches wet."

"I like this," he said, massaging her head. She made a contented little noise. She liked it too. She smiled a secret, private smile. Jess was otherwise occupied, and didn't see. "I could do this all day," he said. "I like your hair. And your eyes. You have great eyes."

"That's so sweet," she said. Her eyes were closed, because of the soap. "It's not you, but it's sweet."

"What do you like about me?" he said. "Tell me right this minute."

"I like it all," she said honestly. "You're beautiful."

"Nobody's ever said I was beautiful before," he said. "It feels--odd." He rinsed her hair.

"Do it again," she said. "Get all the soap out."

She opened her eyes, and he was right there. She leaned over, and kissed him. She didn't care that he still hadn't shaved. He gathered a knot of her hair at the nape of her neck and pulled, forcing her to tilt back her head. She had to let go of her legs, and sit up a bit. Her breasts were bared, and she became a little nervous. He got up on his knees. She tried to cover her lap, but finally she had to grab the sides of the tub, to keep her balance. He ran his other hand down her exposed neck, between her breasts, down her belly. "Oh, God," she moaned.

"Don't start something you can't finish," he said. "Don't do that to me."

"I can finish it," she gasped. "Can you?" He kissed her deeply, and it was delicious. Everywhere he touched her, she got goose bumps. What was this, then, if not true love? She made her decision, freely and of her own will. She wanted to give herself to him completely. To that end, she needed to be honest. "Jess," she said. "Dean and I, we never did anything."

"Good," he said. He sat back on his heels.

"Don't stop," she said. "Why did you stop?"

"Because he's still here with us."

"What? No, he's not!"

"He's in your head," he said.

"Don't do this."

"He's all over you," Jess said. "Like a bad smell."

"Please, don't do this."

"There's you, there's me, and there's Dean."

"I'm naked," she said.

His face twisted. "I'm not making love to a girl who's in love with another guy."

"Don't do this," she begged. "I don't have any clothes on!" She crossed her arms, and covered her breasts with her hands.

"You're still in love with him!"

"Are you kidding me?" she cried. She accidentally sloshed some water out of the tub, wetting his shirt. "He came to my school! He completely humiliated me!"

Jess was watching her, a stern expression on his face.

"Do you know what he did? He came to my house! My house where I'm supposed to live! He dragged me into the bushes." She started to cry. "I didn't know who he was!"

"Did he hurt you?"

"No," she said. "But how could I live there, after that?"

"Rory, please tell me what he did to you."

"He didn't do anything! He sat on top of me."

"What?"

"I hate him!"

"He sat on you?"

"He's a bastard!" She was sobbing, her shoulders heaving.

"Rory, did he rape you?"

She didn't understand the question. The words were meaningless. They reverberated off the bathroom tiles. Rape? Of course Dean hadn't raped her. He was Dean. He had built her a car. He had taken her to a debutante ball. He had just been upset. A thick silence sprung up between them, as she processed the question, and tried to formulate a response. "He was there for, like, five minutes," she said, gasping for air.

"Don't cry," Jess said. "I didn't mean for you to cry."

"I can't help it," she said. "I'm so stupid!"

"Five minutes can be a really long time," he said tentatively.

"He was my boyfriend," she said. "You said it yourself. I cheated on him."

"Never mind that," Jess said. "That's not important."

"It is important," she wailed. "It's practically the only thing that is!"

"What did he do when he was on top of you?"

"I can't talk about this anymore," she said. "My head hurts."

"Finish it," Jess said. "What did he do?"

"Nothing! He was ho-holding my arms." She shook her head, to clear the cobwebs. "He was talking," she said, with more certainty. "He wanted me to listen to him talk."

"What did he make you do?"

"Please drop it," she said.

"Did he rape you Rory, yes or no?"

"No! He didn't rape me. " She put her head in her hands. When she spoke again, her voice was stripped of emotion. She was tired, and felt empty inside. She had thought they were finally going to make love, and had been greedily anticipating her initiation into the exotic world of sexual intimacy. Instead, Jess was forcing her to wallow in the most fetid reaches of her psyche. "He scared me."

"I know," he said. "I knew something had happened. Everybody was freaking out."

"I didn't even try to get away," she said.

"That doesn't matter. Really, honey, it doesn't. He's a lot bigger than you are."

"Where is he? Do you know?"

"No," he said. "But he's far away, I promise. And nobody knows where we are."

_Not yet_, Rory thought, remembering the postcard.

"You need to be able to defend yourself," he said. "We can't let that happen to you again."

"Why did you make me talk about this?"

"You don't have to be so ashamed," he said. "It wasn't your fault."

"It was my fault," she said sharply. "That's what I've been trying to tell you."

"You made an error of judgment," he said. "It doesn't justify what happened."

"Wouldn't you be embarrassed?" It was an honest question. "What if you were so feeble anybody could do whatever they wanted to you?"

"I'm not invincible," he said. "I'm the one with the knife wound."

"But you still have your dignity," she said. "Nobody hiked up your skirt."

"What?" He seemed troubled.

Rory looked away.

"Rory," he said. "Are you talking about Dean, or me?"

"I'm tired of talking," she said.

"Shit," he said. "I've been too rough with you."

She shook her head. "No."

"I didn't know he'd actually abused you. I heard he went to your school. But I couldn't figure out what happened that made Luke and everybody go nuts. I had no idea Dean went to your house. And there I was, ripping off your clothes, just a few hours later. Rory! Why didn't you tell me?"

"Try to get it through your thick skull," Rory said. "Nobody 'abused' me. I think you're in love with the idea that I'm helpless. You don't have to take care of me."

"I like taking care of you," he said, sounding hurt. "I thought we were taking care of each other."

"Then let me be a grownup too," she said. "Stop trying to be the boss of me."

"I'm not," he said.

"You're too strict," she said. "You always have to be in charge."

He let out a breath. "I was afraid for your safety. Who knows what Dean was planning to do to you? No one ever takes charge, Rory. They all sit around, and the girl gets raped, or worse—she's dead."

"Oh," she moaned. "Please, please stop this."

"I had to act. I had to do something."

"Please," she said. "I can't talk about this anymore."

"I'm finished," he said. "There were some things I didn't know, and now I do."

"Whatever."

"Rory," he said. "We're going to figure out what to do."

"Fine," she said tiredly.

"Are you okay alone?"

"You're leaving me?"

"Just for a little while."

"I need you," she said.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Please don't go!"

"Rory," he said, in a careful voice. "I'm going to lose my temper. I don't want it to be in front of you."

"Are you mad at me?"

"No," he said. "Never. Frustrated, yes, but never mad."

"Oh," she said, feeling abandoned.

He kissed her on the forehead. "Sweet Rory," he said, sighing. "Why didn't you just break up with him?"

_x_

He was gone quite a while. She got out of the tub, and wrapped herself in a towel. She wandered out into the room. She was anxious and restless, all cried out and jumping at shadows. Twice, she looked out the window. She began to be afraid Jess had lied again, and that he had gone to meet the Hartzke brothers without her. Maybe they were killing him that very minute. Maybe they were the ones who were digging a great big New Jersey-style hole. She realized that after everything that had just happened, or perhaps, and this was an interesting thought, because of it, she still wanted him. She reviewed her decision to have sex with Jess, and found it sound. When he came back—if he made it back—she would make it happen. She wanted to cement their tie to one another, so that he would never leave her side.

Finally, she turned on the television. She sat on the edge of the bed. She had to get up again, to flip the channels. There was no remote. "Oh, my," she said, looking at the screen. She turned up the sound.

When she got cold, she debated getting dressed. She really didn't want to. Plus, she was intending to seduce Jess. She couldn't wrap up in the bedspread. It was polyester. She bundled it up, and put it in a corner. She pulled the blanket off the bed, and wound it around herself, like a great big toga. She sat at the foot of the bed, watching the movie. Her face got hot. At one point, she said, "Oh, gross," but she couldn't seem to turn away, or change the channel. On some level, the movie was shocking, but it was also so bad, it was stultifying; it lulled her into a dozy sort of calm. There was a meager educational aspect to it as well. She made some mental notes.

"Hey," said Jess, opening the door. He was carrying a couple of bags. "I tried to buy you some clothes. It was traumatic."

"You didn't get me anything," she said. Her eyes were on the TV, but she was very aware of him. She could smell the cigarette smoke from across the room. "I knew you wouldn't."

"I did," he said. "I went to a store. It was full of women." He shuddered. "I didn't know what to get, and the saleslady was way too interested. It was like she thought I was cute, or something." He said 'cute' like it was a very bad thing.

"You are cute," Rory said, just to bug him.

He put the bags on the table. His back was to her. "So, I thought I'd get you some jeans. I know how you like to wear jeans. But that was too hard. Do you have any idea how complicated it is to buy jeans for a woman? Especially when—as I discovered—I had no clue what size you wear."

Rory giggled, some action on the screen drawing her attention back to the movie.

"Then I thought, okay, she has a kilt, I can get her a black sweater, and she can do a kind of retro-punk thing. But I realized you'd need some Docs, and first of all, there were no shoes there, and secondly, I also had no idea what your shoe size was. This was likewise a problem with the great jeans debate I had with the saleslady. You would have had to wear your saddle shoes with the jeans, and that would have been so Joanie Cunningham."

"You put a lot of thought into this," Rory said, impressed.

"You had so recently been naked." He grinned over his shoulder. Their eyes met, and a flash of electricity passed between then. He looked at her, puzzled, but seemingly pleased. He took off his jacket. "The saleslady kept telling me to find a girl in the store who was your size, but there wasn't one. And when I tried to describe you, she wouldn't believe me." He was talking more than usual, and Rory wondered if he was nervous. The thought made her feel very tender towards him.

"I don't think she could see me with a girl like you." His voice took on shade of bitterness, and Rory looked at him, concerned. He had turned away. He seemed very alone, way over by the table. His back was stiff.

"So," he said. "I compromised." He showed her what he had brought. "This is a shirt that's pretty much like your other one. Except it's white. This is underwear that matches. I mean—the underwear matches itself. The two parts work in tandem, in that they are a match."

"Got it," she said with a smile.

"Very ladylike, because I know you like that. And this is some sort of pantyhose."

Rory held out her hand. "It's thigh highs," she said, turning the packet over in her hands.

"Is that okay?"

She shrugged. "Whatever. Hey, I like your shirt." He was wearing a sky blue T-shirt with the word 'Avon' stenciled across it in white letters.

"I should have got one for you," he said. "This color would be nice on you."

"Hmm," she said, distracted.

"Jesus Rory, what are you watching?"

"Okay," she said. "That one, yeah, her with the blonde hair, her car broke down in the middle of nowhere. Then the redhead showed up, and tried to help her fix it, but they got really, really dirty. So they had to take off all their clothes and go swimming in the lake. That guy—I think he drives a tow truck."

Jess looked repulsed. "Don't watch that."

"I've never seen one of these," she said. "Hey, get out of my way! You're blocking the movie."

Jess turned off the TV. "That's enough."

"I was watching that!"

"It's not for you," he said.

She laughed. "Oh, come on!"

"Food," he said, uncomfortably. "Eat something."

"What did you get?"

"Soup, and some plain rice, from a Chinese place."

"Blah," she said. "Boring!" She dropped the stockings on the bed.

"You were sick," he said. He handed her a carton and a spoon. "Maybe you'll keep this down."

"Can we watch TV while we eat?"

"No," he said.

"Aren't you going to eat?"

"I did," he said. "About fifteen Tylenol."

"That'll help," she said dryly. "I told you you'd get sick."

"I do feel kind of rotten," he admitted. "But it's no big deal."

"Do you have time to rest, before we go out?"

"A little," he said.

"Get in bed. I already messed it up."

He took off his shoes. He stretched out carefully.

"How does it feel?" she asked.

He put his hand to his side. "Sore."

"I guess it would."

"Were you okay here, alone?"

"Yeah," she said. "I watched TV."

"Don't watch blue movies," he said. "They're bad for you."

She smiled to herself. He could be so paternalistic! "Did you work through your anger?" she asked, with only the tiniest bit of sarcasm.

"All gone," he said. "Listen. I didn't mean to make you think about bad things. I thought maybe you should let it all out."

"Pop psychology 101."

"Yeah," he said. "It's Oprah's shtick, I know."

"I was doing fine," she said.

"No," he said. "You've been in a state of suspended animation. Totally out of sync."

"I don't know what to do," she said.

"I know."

"I want to be with you. You have to believe me."

"Okay."

"But I wanted to get lost for a while. I don't know if-"

"If you can stay lost," he finished.

"I'm-I've always had a plan. A path. Places to go, and people-"

"People to be," he said. "I know that, too. I don't really figure into any of that. I'm just your ride."

"No!"

"It's okay," he said stoically.

"Jess," she said. "I love you. I've loved you for a very long time."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

_x_

Jess was leaning against the headboard. She straddled his legs. "Does this hurt?" she asked.

"Nope." He kissed her.

"What about this?" she asked, touching him.

"Nope."

"Oh dear!" She dropped the blanket. "My car broke down. Will you help me fix it?"

"Will you make it worth my while?"

"I don't know how I'll ever repay you." She put a finger to her lips, as if she were thinking hard. "I don't have any money."

"I'd like the record to show that she voluntarily took off her blanket. Revealing a very naked girl." He put his hands on her bare hips. She wriggled at little, enjoying the feel of his hands, enjoying him.

"Oh my goodness," she said. "She voluntarily undid his belt."

He grabbed her wrists. "No."

She pouted. "But I want to!"

"I know," he said. "So do I. But I'm too sore."

She groaned. "How long do I have to wait for you to get better?"

"I'll fast track it," he said.

"Hold my wrists," she said.

"I am."

"Hold me tight."

"I am."

"So I can't get away."

"That's what I'm doing."

"Kiss me," she said. "It's the least you can do."

_x_

_**To be continued . . .**_


	11. 11

11. 

"You're hot." 

"Hah," he said. "I knew it." 

"No," she said. "I mean hot. You're feverish." 

He pushed her hand away. "I'm fine," he said. 

"What if you get sick? I think you're getting sick." 

"I don't have time to worry about that now." 

"When are you going to worry about it?" 

"Later," he said. "After." 

"I hope things go okay, tonight." 

"They will." 

"You don't feel well," she said. "And we only have so much running around left in us." 

"I'm the only one who's going to be running around," he said. "You're going to stay out of sight." 

"Maybe I can help you," she said. 

"Rory," he said. "You promised you'd stay in the car. If you only ever do one thing for me, for the rest of your life, it has to be that you stay in the car." 

"But-" 

"I have to be able to count on you," he said. "Promise me." 

"Oh, Jess." 

"Promise me," he said, roughly. 

"I promise," she said automatically. 

"Your word," he said. "Give me your word." 

"I give you my word," she said. 

"What?" 

"I'm worried about you! I'm allowed to worry about you, too." 

His hand tightened on her waist. "I'll be fine." 

"I'm just worried," she repeated. 

  


He was very sore. Before too long, he had to ask her to get off him. He asked her for the copy of _Winesburg_. She slid off the bed, aware of his eyes as she walked away. She fetched him the book. "Do you want a drink of water?" she asked. 

"No, thanks," he said. 

She went into the bathroom to get herself a drink. When she came back, he was reading quietly. She crawled up on the bed. She poked him until he lifted his arm. She snuggled up to his side, closing her eyes. "Hey," she said. 

"Yeah?" 

"If I fall asleep, you won't leave without me, will you?" 

"No. I'd worry about you too much. I guess you have to come." He kissed the top of her head. "You're a trouble magnet," he said. "Everybody wants a piece of Rory." 

"Jess," she said. 

"Yes?" 

"I'm sorry, I'll be quiet so you can read, but I wanted to ask-" 

"Uh-huh?" 

"You said I could call. Home, I mean." She felt him get tense. "I don't have to," she said quickly. "Forget it." 

"No," he said. "I want you to." 

"Yeah?" 

"Rory, you have to." 

She let out a breath. "I don't know what to say. What would I tell her?" 

"Tell her what happened," he said. "Tell her whatever you want. You can see what's going on back there, and decide what you want to do." 

"But what about you?" she said. "What if I want to stay with you?" 

"That might not be possible," he said tightly. 

"Then I'm not going to call," she said. If she didn't call, she could continue to exist in this strange moment of in-between-time, in this nest of rumpled bedclothes, with her wounded man at her side. She didn't have to get dressed. She didn't have to think about difficult things, like the chaotic disarray of her real life, and her mother's anguish. 

"Stop it," he said. "You are, too. I'll make you, if I have to." 

"Could we--what if we went home together?" she asked tentatively. 

"No," he said. 

"I can't go back without you," she said. 

"Rory," he said. "I abducted you from your bedroom, and I stole a car. I'm not a minor anymore. This is a big deal." 

"There was no abduction," she snapped. "And I stole the car, too." 

"Nope." He shook his head. "You didn't even know it was stolen." 

"What?" 

"I told you I borrowed it." 

"Are you crazy?" 

"As far as you knew, the car was legit." 

"What are you talking about?" 

"If it ever comes up, that's what you tell the cops." 

"Jess," she said. "I always knew the car was stolen." 

"Jeez," he said. "For a smart girl, you can be really stupid." 

"Hey!" 

"You're going to blink those baby blues and say: 'Stolen car? I don't know anything about a stolen car.'" 

"And what?" she said. "You take all the blame?" 

"Yes," he said. 

"No way." 

"That's the way it's going to work." 

"You never would have taken the car, if it wasn't for me. I won't lie and get you in more trouble." 

He laughed. "I did fine with the getting myself in trouble," he said. "It's getting you out of trouble that I'm working on." 

"I'll say it was my idea," she said. "I took the car." 

"Rory!" 

"I-I was scared of Dean," she said, not liking the way the words felt in her mouth. "I took the car, and I made you come with me." 

"No." All of a sudden he was holding her very tightly. 

"Ouch!" she said. 

"What?" 

"Nothing." 

"What's the matter?" He was trying to look at her back. 

"Quit it," she said. He traced her bottom with his hand, and she jumped. 

"Show me your back," he said. 

"No," she said. "Let go." 

"Roll over on your stomach." 

"As if," she said. 

"Listen," he said, dropping it. "You can tell the cops whatever you want. I wish you'd tell them my story, but the truth of the matter is, you're the princess, I'm the villain, and you're not going to get charged with stealing any cars." 

"Hah," she said. "If you make me go home alone, I'm telling them I killed you and dumped your body in the ocean." 

"That's just great," he said. "Then they'll send you to one of those upscale psych wards for out-of-control rich girls." 

"Oh, no," she said. 

"You can't win," he said. "When you mess with Jess, you mess with the best." 

  


"How did you steal the car?" 

"What?" 

"How did you steal the car?" he asked. "The details are important." 

"What do you mean?" She wrinkled her nose. 

"If you're going to say you stole the car, you'll have to tell them how." 

"Oh," she said. 

"So, how did you do it?" 

"I hot-wired it," she said. 

"Oh, yeah?" He grinned. "How did you do that?" 

"Hang on, hang on," she said. "I saw it in a movie, once." 

"I'm waiting. I'm a big, mean detective, and I'm waiting impatiently for your story." 

"Stop it," she said. "I don't work well under pressure." 

"Grand Theft Auto is kinda a high pressure field," he said. "Not for the faint of heart." 

"Okay," she said. "I got a hanger from my closet. I twisted it up, and used it to open the door." 

"I see," he said. "Because you didn't happen to have your Slim Jim handy." 

"My what?" 

He laughed. "Never mind. So, you got the door open. What then?" 

She thought about it. "Uh, I looked underneath, where those wires are, and I just sort of touched different ones together until the engine started." 

"Underneath where?" 

"The whatchamacallit. You know!" 

"Rory," he said. "That's the worst car stealing story I ever heard in my life. Nobody would buy that for a second." 

"Wait a minute," she said. "Wait a minute! How did you do it?" She thought about it for a second. "You have the keys!" 

He laughed. "Don't make me laugh anymore," he said. "It hurts." 

"You have the keys! You stink!" 

"You'd be surprised," he said. "A lot of people leave their keys in the car." 

"Man," she said. "Hey!" 

"What?" 

"So, I looked for a car that had the keys in it, and I stole it." 

"Wait a minute," he said. 

"Ha-hah! I took it! I had the keys!" 

"Stop that," Jess said irritably. 

"You're not as smart as you think you are," she said. 

He had an arm wrapped around her shoulders. He shifted a little, and covered her mouth with his hand. "I'm the car thief," he said. 

"Mmmph!" she said. 

"That's my identity." 

"Mmm-mmm!" She grabbed his wrist. 

"You wouldn't want to steal my identity, would you? That would hurt my feelings." 

"Hmm hum!" she said. 

"I'm sorry, Cinderella," he said. "Did you say something?" 

She didn't like having her mouth covered. It gave her the willies. She was able to push his hand away, mainly because he let her. "Cinderella?" 

"Wrong princess?" 

"I'm not a princess," she said. "Stop saying that. I'd need a wicked stepmother to be a princess, and I haven't got one." 

"Ah," he said. 

"Well, I guess I have a stepmother, kind of, but she's not exactly wicked. More like--deranged." 

Jess gave her a squeeze. "We're going to call your real mother," he said. "We can start on the periphery, and work our way around." 

"Huh?" 

"We could try calling Lane. Or the diner. Gauge the mood. See what's going on." 

"Oh," she said. It was a good idea. "Now?" 

"Can't," he said. "I paid cash. Can't call out from that phone." 

"Oh." 

"I want to read," he said. 

"Of course," said Rory. "Sorry." She cuddled up to him, closing her eyes. 

  


Dean was holding her wrists over her head. Her shoulders were throbbing. Her back was bowed; it was starting to ache. "I was so in love with you," Dean said. "You can't know how much I loved you. You were all I thought about. I wanted to be with you forever." The word 'forever' echoed ominously in her ears, "forever, forever." Rory looked away from him. The sky was pink, and the clouds were porous wisps. She started to laugh. 

"Why are you laughing?" he said, sounding hurt. 

She could only shake her head. It was all so stupid. 

He let go of her arms, and she brought them down, relieved, but he grabbed the front of her sweater. "Why are you laughing?" he said. "What's so funny?" 

She rolled on her stomach. He grabbed her, flattening himself on top of her. She was suffocating. She couldn't get away all by herself. She needed help. 

She felt hands. He was shoving up her skirt. "No," she moaned. "Oh, please, no." He grabbed her tights and underpants, and yanked them down. Dimly and far away, she was aware that this wasn't really happening, it wasn't a true memory. That didn't make it any less horrible. "Dean," she said. "You never did this! Are you really you?" 

"Jess did this," said Paris. 

Rory lifted her head. Paris was standing right in front of her. "What?" 

"He's doing it right now. It's all in his head." 

"Nobody did this," Rory said. "It's not true!" Her bare bottom was exposed to the cool night air. "Paris! Help me!" 

"I can't," Paris said. "I'm not really me, either." 

"I need help," Rory said. She began to cry. 

"Then ask for it," said Paris. She seemed disgusted. "Where's your voice?" She turned away, and disappeared. 

"Mom!" Rory screamed. "Mom! Mom!" 

  


"Rory, wake up!" Jess was shaking her. 

She opened her eyes. She was flat on her stomach. Her arms were pinned under her, smarting with pins and needles. Her head was turned to the side, and her mouth was open. "Oh," she said, frightened and groggy. Her head was as thick and fuzzy as if it were packed with cotton. "What are you doing?" 

"I'm not doing anything," he said. "You were having another nightmare." 

She sat up slowly. "Uh," she said. She put her head in her hands. 

"I don't like this," he said. "This is bad." 

She looked over her shoulder. "What?" 

"You always wake up screaming," he said. "It's the stress." 

"I'm fine," she said. "I'm okay." 

"You were calling out," he said. "For your mother." 

"Oh," she said, embarrassed. 

"And you're all beat up, too," he said. 

"What?" 

"I was looking at your back," he said. "While you were sleeping." 

"Are you kidding me?" 

"Stretch out on your stomach again." 

"No," she said. "Stop it." 

"Do it," he said sharply. 

Heavy-hearted, she stretched out on the bed, allowing him to straddle her legs. It was eerily like her dream. She almost expected to look up and see Paris hovering nearby. Paris had systematically invaded every aspect of Rory's life; now, she was living in Rory's dreaming mind. Rory let herself drift for a second. She wondered: _Why do I have Paris on the brain_? 

Jess touched her bottom, and she flinched. "Where did that bruise come from? Did Dean do that?" 

"I don't have a bruise there," she said. "Please get off me." 

He touched her again, and it hurt. "I fell," she said, remembering. 

"When?" 

"I don't like this," she said. "Please get off." 

"I want to know how you got that bruise," he said. 

"I hate it when you do this," she said. 

"What happened?" 

"I fell!" 

"When?" 

"Maurice Emmel shoved me," she said. "Please get off me. I can't breathe." 

"When did he shove you? I didn't see that." 

"You were sort of unconscious," she said. "I really can't breathe, Jess." 

"What about this?" he said, pressing a spot near her shoulder blade. "I didn't notice it before, in the bathroom." 

"I don't know what you're talking about!" 

"This," he said, poking her back. 

"I can't feel it," she said. "It doesn't feel like anything." 

"Your whole back is bruised," he said. "I can believe I didn't see it before." 

"Get off me," she said desperately. "I'm going to scream." 

"I can't stand it that you're all beat up," he said. "It makes me sick." 

"You're not listening," she said. "I don't like this. Get off!" He slid off her, and she rolled away. "How dare you look at me when I'm sleeping?!" 

"It was the only way," he said. "You're so secretive. You don't tell the truth about anything!" 

"You're delusional," she said. With belated modesty, she covered her breasts and her lap with her arms, like a bathing beauty surprised at the river. "I told you. You have a fever." 

"Tell me the truth," he said. 

"About what?" 

"Maurice Emmel pushed you?" 

"He did!" 

"In the five seconds I was out of it, he pushed you hard enough to get you all bruised up like that?" 

"Yes!" 

"The truth!" 

"That is the truth!" 

He shook his head. "No." 

"Oh, shut up," she said, suddenly understanding what the problem was. 

"Dean raped you, and you don't trust me enough to tell me about it!" 

She slapped him. His face grew dark and angry, and Rory thought she'd gone too far. It seemed like he might grab her, or maybe even hit her back. "You'd love that, wouldn't you? Then all this-" she waved her hand. "It would all make sense. It would be justified." 

"No," he said. He looked away, and the moment was defused. He put his hand to his cheek. "Rory, I-" 

"There was no rape," she said, cutting him off. "No matter how many different ways you say it, it won't be true. There's you, there's me, and the dumbest mess of all time." She got up, wrapping the blanket around herself. 

"Rory," he said. 

"I'm getting dressed now," she said. 

"Wait," he said. "Wait." 

She looked at him. "Sometimes, you make it really hard to love you." 

"I know." He held out his arms. "Come here." Rory hesitated. Less than a minute ago, she had been afraid he was going to hurt her. Now, he seemed so upset, it was almost funny. She relented, and let him gather her up. "The thought of anything bad happening to you makes me crazy," he said. 

She relaxed into him, her head on his chest. "Don't bring it up again," she said. "I mean it. It will make me very angry." 

"Ouch," he said. "I'd hate to see what you'd do if you got mad."   
  


'_When she was a girl of sixteen and before she began to work in the store, Alice had an affair with a young man. The young man, named Ned Currie, was older than Alice_.' Jess was reading aloud from _Winesburg, Ohio_. His voice was soothing, and Rory began to relax. She lay beside him, looking at the ceiling. She was preoccupied, only half listening. She was sick of _Winesburg, Ohio_. 

Rory was troubled. She never knew, from one moment to the next, what would set Jess off. She had spent a long time with Dean, walking on eggs, trying so hard to keep him from getting angry. If Dean had said the sky was green, she would have agreed, just so it wouldn't become an issue. She didn't care. So she said the sky was green. She knew it wasn't. She had genuinely thought that Jess would be different. Outwardly, he seemed so independent, like nothing fazed him. But he tried so hard to be in control, to manage things that, in the end, couldn't be managed. He was fragile in ways she could never have suspected, and bothered by false notions. Was it only that he was sick? Was he having trouble being rational, because he didn't feel well? Rory almost hoped that was the case; otherwise, his erratic behavior could quickly become intolerable. 

There was one thing that had the potential to make the heartache worthwhile. She threw a bare leg over his, and he stopped reading for a moment, distracted. He returned to the book. Rory blew her hair out of her face, exasperated. She wanted to make him forget about _Winesburg_, and concentrate on her. 

'_They got out of the buggy at a place where a long meadow ran down to the bank of Wine Creek and there in the dim light became lovers. When at midnight they returned to town they were both glad. It did not seem to them that anything that could happen in the future could blot out the wonder and beauty of the thing that had happened. "Now we will have to stick to each other, whatever happens we will have to do that," Ned Currie said as he left the girl at her father's door_.' 

"Jess," she said, running her foot up and down his leg. 

"Yes?" he said. 

She put her hand on the book, shoving it away. He grabbed her wrist, and folded her arm behind her back. He held the book off to the side, and continued with the story. '_For a number of years nothing could have induced her to believe that Ned Currie would not in the end return to her_.' 

"Hey!" She struggled, but he didn't let go. If anything, he shoved her wrist higher, toward her shoulder blades. "Ow, ow," she said tonelessly. 

Jess looked up. "Am I hurting you?" 

"No," she said sulkily. "But-" 

"I didn't think so," he said, shutting her up with a kiss. He read: '_She began to save money, thinking that when she had saved two or three hundred dollars she would follow her lover to the city and try if her presence would not win back his affections_.' 

Rory sighed dramatically. Jess ignored her, so she did it again. What did she have to do make this man notice her? She was naked under the blanket, she was throwing herself at him, and he sat there reading like he was at the library! She groaned in frustration. 

'_Alice did not blame Ned Currie for what had happened in the moonlight in the field, but felt that she could never marry another man. To her the thought of giving to another what she still felt could belong only to Ned seemed monstrous_.' 

"I'm bored," she said, like a bad little girl. "I think you should amuse me." 

"Maybe I should throw you in a cold shower," he said. 

"Brick," she whined, in an exaggerated Southern accent. "I feel like a cat on a hot tin roof!" 

He laughed. "That better be the movie you're doing," he said. "Not the play. Because in the play, Brick is gay." 

"Movie, movie," she said quickly. 

"They edited that out of the movie," he said. 

"Elizabeth Taylor," she said. "I'm doing Elizabeth Taylor." 

"That makes me-" 

"Paul Newman," she said. 

"Good," he said. "Butch Cassidy." 

"You would identify with Butch Cassidy," she said grumpily, pointlessly tugging on her wrist. 

"I have vision, and the rest of the world wears bifocals," he said, returning to his book. 

"No!" she said. "Not the book. Don't go back to the book!" 

'"_I want to avoid being so much alone_,"' he read. "_If I am not careful I will grow unaccustomed to being with people_."' 

She moaned. "That's not even your place. That's not where you were!" 

He laughed, and got an even tighter grip on her wrist. "Now I have you just where I want you." 

Wriggling, she said: "Remember what I said about you always having to be in charge?" 

"I was supposed to keep you from getting away." He kissed her, touching her lightly with his tongue. He drew back, just out of reach. Somewhere low in her belly, there was heat, uncoiling like a snake. Jess held the book in front of his face. She squirmed. He ignored her. Rory groaned. 

  


"Jesus," said Rory. She was very frustrated. Jess wouldn't stop reading, but he wouldn't let go of her, either. "Why do you like this book so much?" 

"Language," he said. 

"Pardon?" Could he possibly be telling her to watch her language? 

"It's the language I like," he said. "Terse, tidy, short sentences. There's a lot packed in there." 

"It's driving me bananas," she said. 

"You don't want me to read?" 

"Nope," she said. "I didn't get naked to read. I got naked to have an adventure." She surprised herself, with her boldness. 

"You have no idea how long I've wanted you," he said. "This situation we're in, it's a cruel, cruel joke. To be here with you, and have you actually wanting me! I've thought about you every day. Some of the stuff I've thought about you . . ." 

"Tell me," she said, tantalized. 

"No way," he said, grinning. "Men are depraved. You'd be grossed out." 

"Maybe not." She'd been having some interesting thoughts of her own. 

"Your mother was right about me," he said. 

"Right in what way?" 

"I'm the man she warned you about." 

"Do you have a motorcycle?" 

"A motorcycle? No, why?" 

"Then you're not the man she warned me about." 

He laughed, letting go of her wrist. "I want to steal your innocence. To take it for myself. So no one else can have it, only me." 

"In case you hadn't noticed," she said, "I'm pretty much offering it to you on a silver platter." She shucked the blanket, and sat up on the bed, so that he could not help but see her in all her naked glory. 

He groaned. "You have no idea what you're saying." 

"What do you take me for?" She was slightly offended. "I'm not a little girl." 

"Maybe not." He cupped one of her breasts, running his thumb back and forth. She shivered, arching her back. "But you are a virgin," he continued. "No matter what you've read, there are things you just don't know." 

"Thank you, Henry Miller," she said sourly. She realized he was petting her absently, like someone would play with a cat that was jostling for attention. She almost swatted away his hand, but she couldn't, she very much wanted to be touched. He was being so stingy! "It must be great, to be so worldly," she said sarcastically. 

"Don't be like that," he said, sliding his hand down to her hip. "I want it to be right for you. As right as it can be." 

"Let me worry about that," she said. 

"No," he said. "Let me worry about that." 

"This is what I was talking about," she said. "I take responsibility for myself. It's not all on you, to make everything perfect." 

"But I want it to be," he said. "I want to do something for you." 

"To me, you mean." 

"Well, yeah," he said. "No question. But I want to make it good. It's a big responsibility, for a guy." 

"Oh," she said. "I'm so sure guys sit around all day worrying about that." 

"No," he said. "That's the problem. I never used to, either. But I love you, Rory, and I want it to be good." 

"I want it to be good, too," she said. She had been keeling. She changed position, so that she could rest her head on her knees. 

"We have to wait," he said. He wagged a finger in her face. "Be patient!" 

"Arrgh," she said. "I'm suffering from an overdose of sexual tension. I could expire!" 

"You're not going to expire," he said, laughing. 

"Can't you try?" she wheedled. "Pretty please?" 

"The muscles," he said, groaning. "I don't know much about physiology, but they're all interconnected. I'm having a certain amount of trouble as it is. I can't believe I'm really saying this, but I was thinking of asking you to get dressed, so I could have a breather." 

"Oh," she said. She felt around for the blanket, but stopped short of drawing it over her shoulders. 

"Then again," he said. "What's a little pain between lovers?" 

She looked up. "That depends. Your pain or mine?" His casual use of the word 'lovers' was so perfect. It had taken her breath away. _I'm going to be somebody with a lover_, she thought happily. 

"Mine," he said. "Only mine, and only because every time I move it hurts. That's for now, anyways." 

"And later?" 

"There's gonna be some pain for you--eventually," he said. "You know that." 

"Yeah," she said. "I don't care." 

"When we really do it, if we do it right, it won't be so bad." 

"Okay," she said, feeling cautious excitement. 

"There are some things we can do now," he said carefully. "I didn't say so before, because I didn't know how you'd feel about it." 

"Like what?" 

"Scoot down to the end of the bed," he said. "I can do a little something for you." 

Suddenly, she was apprehensive. "I'm not sure if I'm up for that," she said timidly. 

"Why not? It's something I can do, with this injury." 

"But I thought--I thought it would be the two of us together. I wanted to share that with you." 

"Let me do this for you." 

"But--you won't--it won't be any good for you." 

"Sure, it will," he said. 

"I'm scared," she said. 

"You don't have to be." 

"Don't hurt me." 

"It will feel good," he said. 

"I don't know if I can do this!" 

"It's what you wanted," he said. 

"Is it?" 

"I love you," he said. 

"I love you, too." 

"So you said." He put his hand on her knee. "Well?" 

  


She was kneeling under the water, facing away from the showerhead. She was resting her forehead against the wall. For quite a while, her mind was blank. Slowly, she came back to herself. She began to have thoughts, little ones, about inconsequential things. 

  


"This is good underwear," she said, looking at herself in the mirror. It was a cream-colored lycra, with a stretchy lace overlay. She turned this way and that. "Even the lace isn't too scratchy." 

"Nice turban," Jess commented absently, from the bed. He was reading. Rory had her hair wrapped up in a big towel. She was irritated that her hair was wet, again. 

"I'm the height of teen fashion," she said. "Where are my stockings?" 

"I don't know," he said. 

"I'm just talking to myself," she said. 

"I see," he said stiffly. "I should have known you wouldn't need to talk to me." 

She ignored him. She found the thigh highs, and ripped open the packet. She looked at Jess out of the corner of her eye. She knew he was hurt. Afterwards, after what he had done, she had gotten up and gone into the bathroom. She had closed the door on him. What had he wanted her to do, say 'thank-you?' She had been reeling. Astonished. She had been grateful, but she had also been feeling terribly shy. 

Nobody who read as much as Rory could be considered truly innocent. There were many things she had experienced vicariously, through books. Before she had even kissed a boy, she had read copiously on the subjects of lust and sex. Romance and love were of course well represented in the classics. It wasn't like she didn't know stuff. Theory and practice were simply two very different things. Jess had given her what she had wanted, and she hadn't even had to worry about getting pregnant. Once she had gotten it, however, she wasn't so sure she really wanted it anymore. She had needed a moment alone, to pull herself together, to collect her thoughts. She had to figure out how she felt, and compare it to how she was supposed to feel. 

She sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled the stockings out of the pack. They were a heavy, black cotton, not unlike her tights. She already felt older, more mature. She smiled to herself. _Oh, Jess_, she thought. _Now you can have your nice fruit basket_. She made a mental note to tell him that, when he stopped being so moody. She thought he'd get a kick out of it. 

She rolled up one of the thigh highs. Gently, she inserted her toe. She pulled it carefully over her heel and up her calf, smoothing it with delicate fingers as she went along. She drew it over her knee, to her thigh. She let go of the elastic, and it snapped into place. She looked over at Jess, smiling with her lips pursed. She raised an eyebrow, making it a question. 

"Oh, God," he said. "Let me do the other one." 

  


She sat on the bathroom counter in her underwear, watching him shave. He was using the leftover shampoo in lieu of shaving cream. He had taken off his shirt. His jeans hung low on his hips. Battered and bruised, with the big bandage, she thought he looked like a character from a movie. _The hero soldiers on_, she thought, _but first he takes a quiet moment, to shave_. Rory watched the play of muscle under his skin. He was splendid, lean and tight, muscular and 100 percent swoon-worthy. Really something. If he hadn't been so deathly pale, he would have been perfect. 

"Did you ever watch anyone shave before?" he asked, putting his tongue in his cheek. 

"No," she said, thinking that if they ever had children together, the babies would have dark brown eyes, like his. 

"Not even-" he paused. 

Her heart skipped a beat. _Don't say it_, she prayed. _Please don't say it. Don't start that all over again_. 

"Not even your dad?" he finished. 

"No," she said, relieved. 

  


She was chilly, so she put on his jacket. Something heavy slapped her thigh. She reached into the pocket, and pulled out the handcuffs. They were like a handful of steel and frost. They felt awful in her hand. She dropped them, and they fell to the floor. She backed away. 

"What is it?" He sat up on the bed, obviously in pain. "Rory? What's the matter?" He swung his feet to the floor. 

"You said you were going to tie me up," she said. 

"I didn't mean it," he said quickly. 

"You said it," she said, her voice hollow. 

"I was being a jerk." He got to his feet. 

"You can't say things like that to me!" She wasn't dressed. If she had been, she would have left the room right then, at a run. Once again, she felt she didn't know him. She couldn't know him. He was tricky. He was a liar. He was capable of anything. He could tie up a girl, and leave her behind. 

"Hey," he said. "Rory, calm down." 

"Why do you have them?" she said. 

"I couldn't drive all over town with them hanging off the door," he said. "That's all. What I said before, I was just blowing smoke." He looked embarrassed. "Seriously. I didn't mean it. I would never do that." 

"I can't breathe," she said. 

"You have to calm down," he said. 

"You--you-" The world tilted slightly. She was afraid she might fall. 

He bent with a groan, and scooped the cuffs from the floor. Rory drew back against the wall. He opened the dresser, and tossed the handcuffs inside. "There," he said. He slammed the drawer. "All gone." 

  


She dressed in the bathroom. She was feeling sick and anxious. She wasn't really sure what was going on. Whenever she reached a level of comfort with Jess, something happened to throw a wrench into the works. Did he have secret plans and schemes? Was he going to leave her behind? Her face got hot as she realized it was possible that he had only done what he had done to her to get her to let down her guard. She half-expected him to break into the bathroom again, and lock her to the towel bar. And what was with all the 'I love you's?' Wasn't it unusual for a guy to use the L-word so freely? It was her understanding that they didn't like to say 'love.' They hated it when girls said it--it gave them hives, or something. Sure, Dean had a big thing about it, but he had been a special case. 

"'_Who is he with chin upon his breast, and hands upon his chain_?'" she said aloud, looking at herself in the mirror. "'_The child of a fierce hour: he sought to win the world, and lost all that it did contain_.'" She noticed that the new shirt was a little big. She reached under her skirt, and pulled down the shirttail. "Okay," she whispered. She let out a long breath. "You have to calm down. Okay." 

She opened the bathroom door. Her heart lurched in her chest. Jess was standing right there. He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. She stared at him, her eyes wide. He stepped back, allowing her to pass. She skirted the dresser, giving the drawer with the handcuffs as wide a birth as possible. She was about to open the door when Jess said: "Just a minute." 

She jumped. "What?" She didn't turn back. 

"Here," he said. She did look, then. He was holding her sweater, for her to put on. 

"Oh." She put her arms in the sleeves, and he pulled it up over her shoulders. 

"Rory," he said. 

"Yeah?" 

He put his hand under her chin, tilting back her head. "Everything will be okay," he said. He kissed her on the lips. 

  


"Remind me to get gas," he said, driving. 

"Get gas." 

"Good one," he said, sounding distracted. "Where's that place?" 

"Which place is that?" 

"This is a nutty little town," he said. 

"Hey," she said. "Can we go to the ocean?" 

"We don't have time right now," he said. "But I'll take you later." 

"Okay," she said. 

"You know, not anybody can use the beach. You're supposed to pay." 

"I just want to look," she said. 

"They have this machine to smooth the sand," he said. "Like a Zamboni." 

"A what?" 

"Nothing," he said. 

"That's Maude's house," she said, pointing. 

"Whose house?" 

"A woman I met," Rory said. 

"She told you her name?" 

"A guy was bothering me," she said. "Maude made him go away." 

"I knew it," he said. 

"It was no big deal," Rory said. 

"Pisses me off, is all." 

"Pissed me off, too," she said. 

"I told you not to go out." 

"Because we were afraid of Maurice Emmel," she said. "Not because we're afraid of the whole world." 

"I don't want anybody to hurt you," he said. 

"I'm not made of glass." 

"I know." 

"Jess," she said. "You kind of have a complex. I never knew that before." 

"I'm in love with you," he said. "It's not a disease." 

The streets were dark and quiet. Jess pulled up in front of a donut shop. "I'm going to get us some coffee," he said. "It won't be any good, but it'll be better than nothing." 

"Great," she said. 

"Do you want anything to eat?" 

"Yes," she said. 

"What do you want?" 

"Everything." 

"One donut, coming up." He got out, slamming the door. She watched through the window as he went into the shop. He had to wait. There were three people ahead of him. While he was waiting, he turned, looking around the store. After he had been served, she expected him to come back to the car. She was surprised when she saw him approach some guys at the back, near the video games. He chatted with them for a while, and Rory was mystified. There was no way those kids could be the awful Hartzke brothers. 

Jess came out of the donut shop, flanked by a couple of skater boys. He threw her a hand signal: two minutes. She heard one of the boys say something loud that required a certain amount of gesticulation. She thought it was probably about her. Jess's face got tight, but he didn't respond. They all disappeared around the corner. 

Jess was gone for almost five minutes. She timed it. When he came back, he came around the other way, and she didn't know he was there until he opened the car door, startling her. 

"Here," he said, handing her a coffee. 

"Where's yours?" 

"I didn't want one," he said. 

"What was all that about?" she asked. 

"Painkillers," he said shortly. He showed her. 

"What?" 

"Don't give me grief," he said. "I feel like hell." 

"I know," she said. 

He got the donut out of his pocket. It was in a little brown bag. "Here," he said. "It's chocolate." 

  


"Hold out your hands." They were at a payphone. Rory held out her hands, and Jess dumped all his change into them. "Who do you want to call?" he asked. 

"Not Lane," she said. "It's way too late." 

"You wanna try the diner?" 

She let out a deep breath. "Okay. But don't say where we are. Not yet." 

He dialed. "It's ringing," he said. "Do you want to talk?" 

She shook her head. Her mouth was too dry. She knew when someone picked up, because his face changed. "It's Caesar," he mouthed. It took him a second, but he managed to say: "Hey, Caesar." 

Rory held her breath, leaning toward the fragile link to her home. She listened as Jess said, "It's me." She watched as he ran a hand through his hair. 

He said: "Yeah . . . okay. No, she's with me . . . she's all right." He listened. "I know. I know! Jesus!" He put his hand over the mouthpiece. "He's really yelling," he said to her. "Shit, he just switched over to Spanish." 

"I didn't know he did that," she said. 

"He doesn't," Jess said with a grimace. "Ah, hola . . . Caesar? Tranquilo por favor." He looked at Rory. "Is that right?" 

"What's he saying?" 

"That I'm an irresponsible, ah, something, swear word, swear word, Lorelai." 

"Oh, no," she breathed. 

He looked at Rory, shrugging. "Jeez . . ." 

"What?" she whispered. "What's he saying?" 

"Thanks a lot!" he said irritably, into the phone. "Just tell me . . ." 

"What's wrong?" 

". . .¿dónde está Luke?" He raised an eyebrow. "Your house," he mouthed. 

"What's he saying now?" 

"You have to talk," Jess said. 

Rory shook her head. "I can't." 

"He's not gonna believe you're okay unless you talk." 

"I can't!" 

"She can't," he said into the phone. "She's afraid. She's fine! I am taking good care of her!" He groaned. "Well, don't yell at her," he said. He held out the phone. 

"No," she said. 

"Please," he said, pleading with his eyes. "You have to say something." She took a step away, but he caught her arm, and pulled her back. He held the phone to her ear. "Talk!" he hissed. 

She cleared her throat. "Caesar, I'm okay." Jess had his hand on her back. 

"Rory," said Caesar. His voice was thin and far away. "Where are you?" 

"Caesar," she said. "Is my mom okay?" 

"What do you think? You are very bad children. Jess has to bring you home right now!" 

"My mom," she said, her voice husky. "What's happening with my mom?" 

"Luke is there," he said. "Come home." 

"Is she all right?" 

"Put Jess on the phone!" 

"He wants to talk to you," she said, and her voice broke. She turned away. "Is everybody that mad?" She choked and began to cry. 

Jess took the phone. He got behind Rory. He threw an arm across her chest, just below her neck. She held onto his forearm with both hands. "Uh-huh," he said. 

"I need a Kleenex," Rory said. 

"I need a smoke," said Jess. 

"Kleenex!" Rory wailed. 

"Use my sleeve," he said. He listened for a long minute. "I expected that," he said, resigned. "I'll take care of it." He hung up the phone. 

  


"Welcome to Asbury Park," Jess said. 

Rory drooped in her seat. She had managed to stop crying, but her thoughts weren't working properly. It was like she was wide awake and dreaming at the same time. She saw strange, disturbing things out of the corner of her eye. When she turned her head, nothing was there. 

"Are you okay?" 

"I don't know," she said. 

"I need you to be strong, now," Jess said, turning a corner. "There's a plan, and you have to stick to it. It's very important." 

"I know," she said dully. "Wait in the car." 

"Well, I've expanded it, somewhat," he said. 

"Care to share?" 

"Yeah," he said. He stopped at a light. He sat up a bit, and got out his wallet. "Here." 

"What's this?" 

"Just in case," he said. 

"What?" 

"Hang onto it for me, okay?" 

"Oh," she said. "Okay." 

"I'm gonna leave you the keys, too. Lock all the doors. If I don't come back in a reasonable amount of time, go back to the motel." 

She looked at him, alarmed. "You want me to leave?" 

"Yeah." 

"I won't. Don't ask me to." 

"You'll do what I tell you. I'm not fooling around, here." 

"If something happens, I'm supposed to leave?" 

"Yes!" 

"Fine," said Rory, making up her mind not to do that. 

"Wait at the motel for a reasonable amount of time, and if I don't come back, get in the car, and go." 

"Go where?" 

"Go home," he said. "Leave the car on the outskirts of Stars Hollow, and don't talk about it. But roll down all the windows." 

"Wait a minute," she said. 

"What?" 

"Where to start? Roll down the windows?" 

"Just do it," he said. 

"What's a reasonable amount of time?" 

"I don't know," he said. "More than a minute, less than Miss Havisham." 

"That's not helpful," she said. 

"You have to decide." He pulled to a stop. "Maybe I should park around the corner," he said, drumming his fingers on the wheel. "I don't know what to do!" He ran his hands through his hair. "I don't want you getting out to come see what's happening. But I don't want you to watch, either. Don't watch." 

"Jess," she said. "You're really scaring me." 

"Good," he said. "Then you'll have a healthy respect for the gravity of the situation." 

"Let's get out of here," she said. "Now." 

He shook his head. "I have to deal with this," he said. "Or it will follow me. It needs to be over. I don't want it leaking into the rest of my life." 

"Please," she begged. "Come away with me now." 

He pulled her into a tight hug. "I've got to go," he said. "Lock all the doors. Don't forget the ones in back." 

"Please," she said. 

He kissed her. He looked in the mirror. "There they are." 

With a terrible sense of dread, she looked over her shoulder. What she saw made her feel faint. "Don't go!" 

"On with the show," he said. "This is it." He got out, and slammed the door.   
  


~ * ~

To be continued . . .


	12. 12

12. 

She watched. That was the first rule she broke. She got up on her knees, with her bum sticking out and her eyes just above the back of her seat. Jess circled behind the car. He crossed the street without looking. There was no need. There were no other cars. There wasn't much of anything. When they had driven into Asbury Park, Rory had been upset by the phone call to Caesar, and while she had noticed the litter, and the junked out cars, and the faded pastel buildings with terra cotta roofs and disintegrating facades, she had been too sad and lost to properly appreciate the unnerving desolation of the terrain. Unlike Avon, or the other seaside towns they had driven through to achieve their present situation, Asbury Park was a dead place; it had a weary air, besieged and war-torn, burnt out and abandoned. The Art Deco skeleton of old time merriment remained, but Asbury Park was at present in a seedy state of advanced decay. It was practically a ghost town. Jess had parked less than three blocks from the Atlantic Ocean, and there were no open businesses, no working attractions, and no people. 

No people anywhere! Not a soul. Except--across the street there was a fenced off building that took up the entire block. In the arc of light from the sodium street lamp, Rory could see that the pale green walls were chipped and crumbling. Up on the second story there was a word; some of the letters were missing. She could make out: P A _ A _ E. Splashed above the boarded up windows were more words, twisty and swirly, and Rory could read: Tunnel-Of-Love, Twister, Merry-Go-Round. There were two faces, painted high on the wall, the twin likenesses of an old-fashioned boy, one at either end of the building. They weren't precisely clowns, although they were alarming in the way clowns sometimes were. Slightly pop-eyed, the elevated murals observed the street, smiling identical toothy smiles. 

Not directly under the light, but near enough that Rory could make out their shadowy presence, were the men Jess had come to meet. They were standing under the word 'love' in 'Tunnel Of Love,' next to the chain link fence that surrounded the building. Jess had to placate these sinister figures. Jess needed to appease these men, the mysterious, menacing Hartzke brothers. Everything about the situation stank, from the decaying isolation of the location, to the fact that if there was one thing Jess was really, really bad at, it was appeasing anybody about anything. Mr. Congeniality he wasn't; he had already talked himself into getting stabbed by an emissary of the Hartzke brothers. Rory chewed her bottom lip. Even from a distance, she could see that they were all so much bigger than Jess. Jess was small, he only cleared Rory by a couple of inches, plus hair. They were bigger, probably meaner, and three to his one. 

Jess was walking carefully. She could tell that he was cradling his side, as if he had to literally hold himself together. Swept by the wind, a plastic bag bounced along the street, plastering itself to his pant leg. Rory watched him kick it away. He was limping, because it hurt him to walk--it hurt him to do anything. The street was blocked off with yellow police tape and orange plastic barrels. When Jess got to the tape barrier, Rory thought he might duck under it, or even climb over. He paused for a second, before taking hold of the tape with both hands. He ripped it, and continued across the road. He stepped up onto the concrete sidewalk, and was enveloped by darkness. 

Rory's throat closed up as she lost sight of him. Her breath made a moist film on the seat back, as she waited, watching. She was scared. It would have been nuts not to be. Jess was alone in the dark with three very creepy guys. He was wounded, he was tired, and although a part of her felt it was disloyal, she wasn't so blinded by her affection for him she couldn't appreciate that Jess would be Jess, and that included a tendency to act in a manner that did not always contribute to his own best interests. She didn't really know what the score was with the Hartzke brothers, but she had read books, and seen movies, and she felt she had a handle--albeit a microscopic one--on the nature of bad guys. In addition, there was that idiot, Maurice Emmell. He was a bad guy, and she had experience with him. She felt it was very important for Jess not to act smarter than these guys, or to be sarcastic. He had to let them be the big men, and keep his lip firmly zipped. She closed her eyes and offered up a silent prayer. Jess was never going to keep his lip zipped--not in one million years. He was constitutionally incapable. 

Before long, he was in the light, once again. He was holding up his arms. One of the men grabbed him, and whirled him around. Jess laced his fingers through the fence. The man kicked his legs apart and began to pat him down. After that, she couldn't bear to watch anymore. She curled up in her seat, hugging her legs, with her forehead touching her knees. She was thinking: _This is so much worse than he thought it was going to be_. 

  


Her mind stuttered and skipped, and it was hard for her to concentrate on one thought at a time. Her cold little hand brushed the bare skin where her thigh highs stopped, and she tugged on her skirt, trying to cover herself properly. She settled on thigh highs, as an issue. That was what she would think about. It was something. 

She had never worn thigh highs before. She wished she was wearing her usual tights. It was bad enough to be sitting alone in a dark car in the middle of a wasteland while Jess was menaced by thugs; now she was starting to feel half naked. Thigh highs were risqué, maybe a little crass. Why had Jess bought them for her? It was hard to imagine shopping had left him so flustered he couldn't tell the difference between thigh highs and real pantyhose. He had carefully thought out his other purchases. He had been so casual about the stockings, almost offhand, asking if she thought they were okay. Had he picked them out on purpose? Did he want her to dress a certain way? Did he want her to be slutty for him? Her face got hot as she considered her behavior back at the motel. She had begged him to make love to her. She had tried to trick him into doing it when he didn't feel well. She had been naked! Naked for the first time in front of a guy, hardly twenty-four hours after she had been dumped by her boyfriend. She had been a real slut. 

Was she a slut? In her mind's eye, she glimpsed Jess, kneeling carefully at the foot of the bed, dark in the frame of her pale thighs. He had said only one thing, and it had been almost a command. "Wider," he had instructed, and with a catch in her breath, she'd complied. After that, she had stared at the ceiling, fighting back tears, but not wanting him to stop. Ever. In that moment, he had been hers and she had been his--entirely his--and he had done something for her that nobody had ever done for her before. That wasn't wrong. It didn't make her a slut--did it? She loved him. She had told him that. He loved her too, she knew it was true, because he had said so. 

Jess had fed her, and clothed her, and temporarily put a roof over her head. In his own way, he was taking good care of her. He was paying a steep price for her, too. Most likely, he was in trouble with the law on her behalf. Rory had to assume that was what Caesar had told him on the phone. Then there was the thieving he had done to sustain them, and the deal that had gone sour, bringing them to this scary place. Lifting her head, she looked out the window. What could possibly come next for a couple of ragamuffins on the road? When Jess got out of this mess, how would they live? How would they make money? They were already in so much trouble! They had crossed from one picturesque beach community to the next, each prettier than the last, until they had traversed some invisible line, and found themselves in this bombed out territory. The same thing had happened in their real lives. At some point, they had left the beaten track, and now they were in their very own hell situation. When had that happened, exactly? When had everything benign and ordinary melted away, only to resolve itself into this sharper, more malignant existence? Rory knew it had happened before she had given herself over to the care of a wounded car thief. It had been happening before Jess had knocked on her bedroom window. Jess may have provided the impetus for their flight from Stars Hollow--but in a way, Rory had already been gone. 

The denizens of Stars Hollow lived an idyllic existence. Add a dancing mouse or two, and it would be a fairytale. Nothing bad could happen in Stars Hollow. Girls were not dragged into the bushes by angry boyfriends. Maybe in other parts of the world that sort of thing happened, but not in Stars Hollow. So how had it happened to Rory? She hugged herself, thinking furiously. She could almost smell the smoke coming out of her ears. Things had started to go bad for her yesterday morning, at Chilton. Dean had grabbed her, and dragged her out of class. She couldn't remember the exact sequence of events, but she knew it ended with her in the girl's bathroom, bawling like a baby, her head in Paris' lap. 

Dean. Nervously, she rubbed her wrists. It made her sick to her stomach to think of him. For a dark second, she was back on the ground, with her skirt hiked up and her arms pinned over her head. She felt a dizzying flash of vertigo, as she forcibly turned that image away. She became hot with anger, and the purifying sensation seared away her residual fear. Dean was the one who broke the rules, she thought. He violated the Stars Hollow code of conduct. He had gotten too mad--and he had hurt her. 

She couldn't forget, however much she might wish to. She had to remember what had happened. It was part of her now. The incident had been so bizarre and unlikely. It had spun her loose from her moorings. Jess was right. She had been in a daze. She hadn't been acting, or reacting to anything. She had been passively letting things happen. That wasn't her! She had to find some way to salvage the essence of herself. 

_Dean was the one who spoiled everything_, she thought angrily. His nastiness had been so out of place it had blown open the door to the fierce, big world. All that cold reality had bled into Stars Hollow, and ruined it for Rory. Dean had scared her, and discombobulated her, and made her confused about the people who loved her, and what her place in the world really was. Jess had appeared, and held out his hand. She had needed to be somewhere else. She had followed her . . . well, at that point, it hadn't been her heart she was following, but the dark urges from a different aspect of her anatomy, but she was following her heart now. 

Who was she kidding? She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Dean wasn't the one who broke the rules. She promised herself to one guy, and kissed another. That was the rule that was broken, the only one that mattered. The equilibrium of her previous existence had simply been more fragile than she could ever have suspected. She had allowed herself to be ruled, even if it was only momentarily, by something animal and chaotic, and as a consequence, Dean had been terribly hurt. He had lashed out, hurting her in turn. She really couldn't blame him. She had loved him, once. It was wrong to call him names, or say she hated him. She felt very grownup and right, coming to that conclusion. Maybe she was just a girl, like everyone said, but she was starting to have womanly secrets. This was a big one, and she was going to have to keep it from Jess. She didn't hate Dean. 

  


Jess had urged her to reread Hemingway, and now a quote leapt to her mind: '_All good books are alike, in that they are truer than if they had really happened and after you are finished reading one you will feel that all that happened to you and belongs to you; the good and the bad, the ecstacy, the remorse, and sorrow, the people and the places and how the weather was_.' 

She wondered what he had he been trying to tell her with his deliberate reading of _Winesburg, Ohio_, while she lay naked under his arm. In the story, the boy left Winesburg. He abandoned his lover. Jess had told her that he would never leave her. What if the roles were reversed, and she was the boy from the story, and Jess was the girl? Was he saying that loving her would change him too profoundly? It would affect him so deeply, that it would ruin him for anybody else? Was he saying that it was inevitable that she would leave him? She had fallen out of love with Dean. Would she fall out of love with Jess? 

She had to put Dean out of her head. It was not a forgone conclusion that what happened with Dean would happen between her and Jess. The important thing was that Dean was far away, and couldn't touch her. She was with Jess now, and he had said he was going to take care of her. They were going to take care of each other. As soon as he took care of the Hartzke brothers. She got back up on her knees, and peered over the edge of the seat. She could see all three men now. They were in the light. Two of them were standing behind Jess, while he talked to the third. He looked okay. It seemed like he was explaining the situation. He had everything under control. Hopefully it wouldn't be much longer. They would dole out his punishment, whatever task they wanted him to perform to make up for the one he'd botched. She and Jess could get out of this crazy, godforsaken place, and go back to the motel. She could help him take off his shirt, and maybe rub his shoulders. If he wanted her to do a little something for him, well, it was only fair. She didn't really know how, but he could teach her, couldn't he? 

Then they could make some plans. First, Jess would see a doctor. He would get well. They would have sex, and it would be amazing. She settled back into her seat, smiling to herself. They would be lovers, for real. Nothing that could happen in the future would blot out the wonder and beauty of that. And she would not get pregnant, either. 

Rory's face got tight, and her chest got heavy. She sucked in a painful breath. What had her mother said? "Boys like Jess are a disaster waiting to happen. Sure, they're all brooding and romantic, but in the end, they hurt you. They get you into trouble, and they leave you holding the bag." 

And Rory had asked, "Are you talking about what happened between you and Dad?" 

Her mother had said no, but now Rory wasn't so sure. Did her mother regret her? She had never had that thought before in her life. Lorelai said that she didn't, and Rory had never gotten the sense that she was unwanted. If anything, she had been showered with love. All her life, she and her mother had been the best of friends. They had been happy, two girls playing and working and loving each other, greeting each new day with a welcoming smile. Why then was everybody watching Rory like a hawk? There was her mom, her grandparents, Luke, Sookie, all of Stars Hollow! Were they all waiting to see exactly how far the apple fell from the tree? Were they waiting to see if Rory repeated her mother's mistake? It was too much pressure! 

Lorelai had been adamant. No, she was talking about something else. Crashed cars and broken wrists. But Rory knew. She had been talking about her own life, not Rory's. She had been saying: Don't screw up the way I did. 

Rory was the big mistake of her mother's life. If things had gone according to plan, she wouldn't be alive. But if she was such a good kid--and she had been told all her life that she was--then why would it be so terrible if she followed in her mother's footsteps? Her eyes got hot and prickly as she tried to figure out her muddled thoughts. 

Rory felt like she had swallowed a huge chunk of ice as a terrible and unfamiliar idea arose and began to revolve torpidly in her skull. Was she mad at her mother? With desperate sadness, she thought that maybe she was. She had been mad ever since her mother had picked her up at school. She just hadn't realized it until now. There had been something about her mother's response to what had happened at Chilton that had rubbed her wrong way. Did she run away from home because she was ashamed and feeling overexposed? Did she run away because she was scared of Dean? Or, did she run away expressly to hurt her mother? Was that her real 'swoon of shame?' She didn't know. She couldn't figure it out, and now she was miserable. 

  


Something was happening. She remembered to be terrified for Jess. She got up on her knees in time to see Jess bounce off the chain link fence and fall to the ground. They were kicking him. "Oh, no," she breathed. She slid over to the driver's side, and threw open the door. Climbing out of the car, she was greeted by the smell of salt, and sound of the ocean. The beach was nearby, and she could hear the waves crashing against the shore. The cold fall wind was filled with grit. Her hair blew around her face and spatter of sand razed her skin. She heard a clang, like a bell, and jumped. It had to be the wind, whistling through an abandoned building, causing a sheet of metal to bang against a wall. Standing behind the car, she winced as Jess got kicked again. Her heart was racing crazily. _What can I do_? she thought. _I can't leave him there, all alone. They could kill him_! 

The police. She could phone the police. Jess wouldn't like it, but it was better than the alternative. Was there a phone somewhere? How long would it take her to find it? She realized she didn't even know where they were. What would she tell them? I'm at the P A _ A _ E! Please hurry! Would they even come? 

"I have to do something," she said aloud, and that was when she began to steel herself. "There's no one else--only me." She took a deep breath. Maybe, just maybe, it would be enough if they knew that someone was watching. There was a witness. She couldn't over think it. She had to go. She had to stop the beating. Jess was already hurt; he couldn't take much more. Without giving herself time to reconsider--because if she did, she would only loose her nerve and be reduced to a quivering, contemptible, ineffectual girl--she circled the car, and started across the street. She was small, and her feet were light on the pavement. They didn't hear her coming. 

She could hear them. One of the men was saying, in an eerily reasonable tone, "If I let a potzer like you disrespect me, it undermines my authority." 

"I don't see where the issue of respect enters the equation," Rory heard Jess respond. He was panting. Skidding to a stop, she suppressed a groan of frustration. That sort of comment was so typical of Jess, and in no way conducive to improving his situation. Jess was on his hands and knees, with his head hanging down. He looked like he was on his last legs. 

One of the men was wearing a gortex camouflage jacket. He had light brown hair and a thick neck. He grabbed Jess by the collar, and hauled him up on his knees. Jess groaned. The guy holding his collar looked expectantly at the first man. 

"I'm trying to run a business here," said the first man, the one had spoken before. "You say you're gonna do one thing. The next I hear, you didn't do it." His tone was mild; in another context, Rory would have characterized it as pleasant. "Then you go insulting an important associate of mine," he said. He took a step sideways, into the light. He was a tall guy in a navy pea coat, with pale blond hair. "You understand how I just can't let that slide, right?" 

"All I want, is to make this right," Jess said, directing his comment to the blond. _That's Len Hartzke_, Rory thought, creeping forward. _He's the brains of the operation_. 

"That's all I want, too," Len Hartzke said cheerfully. "Buddy?" 

The big guy hooked his meaty fists together. He raised his arms over his head, throwing his face into shadow. He was behind Jess, and Jess wasn't ready for the blow. "No!" Rory screamed. "Don't hurt him any more!" 

All three men turned to her, surprised. There was Len, looking over his shoulder. Buddy was poised to strike. The third man, she couldn't see clearly. There was only the outline of his head in the light from the street lamp. He was the other brother. She had forgotten his name. 

"Well, hello," said Len Hartzke. 

Blearily, Jess lifted his head. "Oh, no," he said, sounding dismayed. "Rory--go back to the car!" 

"No, stay here with us, Rory," Len Hartzke said. 

"Go on, get out of here!" Jess said desperately. He tried to get to his feet, but Buddy Hartzke and the third brother held him down. 

Rory looked uncertainly from Jess to Len Hartzke. "Just don't hurt him anymore," she pleaded. "He'll do whatever you want. He wants to make it up to you." 

"Oh, Jesus," Jess moaned. 

"This is a very interesting turn of events," said Len Hartzke, sounding pleased. 

"It's not what you think," Jess told him. 

"I think it's exactly what I think," Len Hartzke said. "I don't know how you pulled it off, but you seem to have done well for yourself in Hicksville." 

"No," said Jess. "I just met her." 

"Huh," said Len Hartzke. 

"I picked her up on a street corner." 

"I don't think so," Len Hartzke said. 

"She's a whore," Jess said harshly. 

Rory's stomach twisted and her face got very red. Looking at the pavement, she blinked away hot tears. When she looked up, Len Hartzke was staring at her with an expression that made her feel like a thousand maggots were crawling all over her skin. 

"She's a schoolgirl," Buddy said breathlessly, and Rory shot him an angry look, wishing she had the guts to tell him to shut up. _How can you possibly be named 'Buddy_?' she thought. _Buddy is a name for _nice_ guys_. 

"It's an outfit," Jess protested. "I made her wear it. I have a kink." Buddy kneed him in the back, making him gasp. 

"Her shoes," said the third man, from his place in the shadows. Everyone looked at Rory's feet. 

"I'm telling you. She's just a skank," Jess said desperately. "Look at how skinny she is." 

Rory couldn't understand why Jess was saying those things. Even he was looking at her saddle shoes. She didn't see the relevance of her shoes. Shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, she wished she understood what the men were talking about. Why was Jess lying to them about her? Why did he want them to think she was a whore? He lifted his head and looked directly into her eyes. He seemed terribly worried. 

It was something about the way she looked. Her uniform meant something to these men. Jess was trying to tell her, but she couldn't pin it down. She didn't understand! 

During school hours, her uniform signified a certain thing, it was orderly, it made sense. Anybody could look at her, and see what she was. She was a girl who went to private school, or perhaps Catholic school. After hours--she let the idea turn over in her mind. After hours, her uniform meant something else--something oddly salacious, illicit even--and for whatever reason, that was what Jess wanted these men to think. 

When she got it, her blood ran cold. She nabbed an elusive concept that had been dancing on the edge of her consciousness ever since she had begun her education at Chilton. All of a sudden, she understood the furtive nature of the men she came into contact with every day, the way their eyes slid over her and slid away, marking her with oozy trails like the tracks of snails. Then there was the touching. A guy would be sitting next to her on the bus, in the isle seat. She would be reading. He'd reach up, to pull the cord, and his hand would graze her breast. "Sorry," he'd mumble, not looking at her. She'd be in the corner store, after school, picking up a bag of chips to eat on the way to her grandparents' house. Someone would squeeze past her in the aisle, and for a tiny fraction of a second, his entire body would be pressed up against hers. She'd been getting perved for ages, and she hadn't even clued in until this very moment! 

Under Len Hartzke's hungry gaze, she crossed her arms over her chest, feeling naked. The gesture brought a strange new light to his eyes, and she understood that somehow, she had done the wrong thing. 

"I've figured out how you can make it up to me," Len Hartzke said to Jess. 

"No," said Jess, his voice hollow. 

"I want the girl," Len Hartzke said. 

"You can't have her," Jess said. 

It happened very fast. One moment she was standing on her own, a short way from the men. In an instant, she was in front of Len Hartzke. He was holding her from behind, almost suspended, with a hand on either side of her jaw. She had to stand on tiptoe. Jess was on his feet, struggling, with the chords in his neck bulging. His eyes were wild. The two other men had him by the arms. For the first time she saw the third brother. He had exactly the same face as Len Hartzke. His hair was hidden under a black watch cap, but he was wearing a similar coat. The resemblance was disconcerting. _Twins_, she thought._ They're twins_. That was almost her last coherent thought. Her hands were cold and her feet were cold. An icy chill was creeping up her body. She could barely breathe. From far away, she heard the sound of a scuffle, and then, "Argh! Wait a minute! Wait a minute!" 

Len Hartzke buried his face in her hair, inhaling. "Just like I though," he said. "Nice and clean. You're nobody's skank." 

Rory couldn't stop shaking. She could hear someone yelling. Jess was calling her name, over and over. She came back to herself, and found him with her eyes. Len Hartzke was still holding her head, and she couldn't move at all. 

"Oh, God!" Jess yelled angrily, and Rory saw that he was back on his knees, one hand on the ground, the other holding his stomach. He was breathing hard. "Rory!" 

"Jess?" she said. 

"Don't move," he said. "Stay very still." 

"Okay," she said. 

"What a good girl!" Len Hartzke said. "And you care so much about her!" 

"I don't care about her," Jess said. "I hardly know her. In fact, I was looking for a place to dump her. If you take her, you'll be doing me a favor." 

"Oh yeah?" Len Hartzke said. 

"She's gutter trash," said Jess. 

"I think she looks very sophisticated," said Len Hartzke. 

"I'm HIV positive," Rory gasped. 

"Nice try, honey," Len Hartzke said. 

"I am," Rory insisted. Even though it hurt her to do it, she tried to back Jess up. "Everything he's telling you is true. He doesn't know me. He doesn't care about me at all." 

"She doesn't have anything to do with this," Jess said, sitting back on his heels, with his hands on his thighs. "She's just some girl." 

"She's your girl," said the third brother. 

"No," said Jess. 

"No," said Rory. "I'm nobody's girl. I--I work. On the streets. Like he said." 

"So what do you care if we beat the shit out of him?" Buddy asked. 

"Oh." Rory opened and closed her mouth. She couldn't think of anything to say. 

"I haven't paid her yet," Jess said. "That's all she cares about." 

"Is that all you care about?" Len Hartzke asked, giving her a shake. Rory swayed, and almost lost her balance. Jess looked scared. He tried to get to his feet. Buddy shoved him back down. Rory had to grab Len Hartzke's wrists to stay on her toes. If her legs buckled, and Len Hartzke didn't release her . . . 

"Let go," she said. "I'm going to fall!" 

"Let her go," Jess said angrily. "She's-" 

"What?" asked Len Hartzke. 

"Delicate," finished Jess, sounding defeated. He hung his head. 

"I've been noticing that," said Buddy Hartzke. "She's very small boned." 

"Her tiny feet," said the third brother. 

"Her little hands," said Buddy Hartzke. 

"Her slender neck," said Len Hartzke. 

"Oh, yeah," said Buddy Hartzke. "Very delicate. Her neck, I mean." 

"Fragile," said the third brother. 

"Oh, God," Jess said. 

"Very fragile," Len Hartzke said significantly. 

"You can't do this," Jess said, clearly frightened. 

"Do what?" said Rory. 

"You can't mean to do this," Jess said. 

"Jess?" Rory said. 

"Don't tell me what I can do," said Len Hartzke. Rory couldn't see his face, but he sounded dangerous. 

"Jess?" Rory said. "What's he talking about?" 

"Stand very still," Jess said to her. "Don't move at all." 

"What's he talking about?" Rory said, panicked. 

"Hush, baby," Jess said. "Please, don't move." 

"She's the one," said the third brother. 

Buddy Hartzke said, "With her long hair falling . . ." 

And Len Hartzke said, "Her eyes that shine . . ." 

"Like a midnight sun," his twin finished. 

"It's my debt," Jess said. "I'll do anything. Just let her go." 

"Shut the fuck up," said Len Hartzke. "You talk too much. I've always thought so." 

"Really?" said Rory. She thought Jess hardly talked at all. 

"There's one of two ways this can go," Len Hartzke began. 

"She's not a piece of meat," Jess interrupted. 

"That's exactly what she is," the third brother put in. 

"I beg your pardon?" said Rory. 

"You fucked up something that I care about. Now I'm going to fuck up something that you care about," Len Hartzke said. 

"Goddam it!" Jess yelled. "This isn't a movie! You can't just take revenge on my girlfriend!" 

"Now she's his girlfriend," Buddy Hartzke pointed out. 

"She's my girlfriend," Jess spat. "And you're a fucking psycho!" 

"Oh, God," said Rory, because Jess was losing his temper, and that was only going to make things worse. 

Jess exploded. "I was going to transport something. I was late. I fucked up. You don't have to hurt a girl because of it!" He ran his hands up and down his thighs, and Buddy Hartzke took a step toward him. "Don't you get that she's a separate person from me? How is hurting her, hurting me? Do you live in Bizarro Land? What the fuck is wrong with you? What-" He was cut off abruptly as brother number three knocked him to the ground. 

"Don't," Rory moaned. 

Jess propped himself up on one arm, saying, "Don't touch her! Leave her out of this!" 

Rory said, "I don't care what you do to me-" 

Jess said, "I don't care what you do to me-" 

Rory said, "Please, don't hurt him anymore-" 

Jess said, "Just let her go-" 

"Shut up, the both of you," said Len Hartzke. "You're giving me a headache." 

"I'm hungry," Buddy Hartzke said. "Are we almost finished?" 

"Yeah, me too," said Len Hartzke's twin. "What do you think? Pizza?" 

"I could eat," Len Hartzke said. 

"Not pizza," Buddy Hartzke said quickly. "Every fucking night." 

"So what do you want?" the third brother asked. "Chinese?" 

"I could go for that," Buddy Hartzke said. "Chinese would really hit the spot." 

"No," said Len Hartzke. "I want the thing with the meat in the pita bread." 

"You could have that," Buddy Hartzke said. "We'll have Chinese." 

"I don't want to make two stops," Len Hartzke said. "Everybody gets the same thing." 

"So long as we get something," his twin said. 

"Yeah," Buddy agreed. "And like, right now. Not at four in the morning, or whatever. I hate that." 

"Oh, me too," said the third brother. 

"What about you, sweetie?" Len Hartzke asked Rory. "You hungry?" 

"Excuse me?" said Rory. 

"You're not taking her!" Jess yelled. "Fuck!" 

"Here's the deal," Len Hartzke said, suddenly serious. He slid an arm around Rory's neck. With his free hand, he gripped her jaw firmly. "I can leave her," he said. "For you. If that's what you really want." 

"Holy Mary Mother of God," Jess said reflexively. He didn't seem to be aware he had said it. 

"I'd rather take her, if you understand what I'm saying," Len Hartzke said. 

"I understand what you're saying," Jess said quickly, his whole body tensing. He sounded very afraid. 

"She has such delicate bones," Len Hartzke said. 

"Please, no," Jess said. "I get it!" 

"I don't," said Rory, with some difficulty. She had been on her toes for a really long time, and she couldn't breathe properly. She was finding it hard to stay upright, let alone follow the conversation. 

"Either way your debt is paid," Len Hartzke said. "You follow?" 

"Jesus," breathed Jess. 

"He's hurting me," Rory told Jess. 

"Please--stop," Jess said to Len Hartzke. 

"But if I take her, you pay off your debt, and I'll throw in a line of credit, because I'm such a nice guy." 

"You're a bastard," Jess said, looking incredulous. "She's worth more than that and you know it." 

"You don't want me to take her, say the word." 

"I don't want you to take me," Rory said. 

"Rory, be quiet," Jess said. 

"Don't let him take me," she said. 

"Don't do this," Jess said to Len Hartzke. "She's completely innocent." 

"I know," Len Hartzke said. 

"And that's why you want her," Jess said, his voice rough. He looked away. 

"Yep," Len Hartzke said. 

"You don't even deal in girls," Jess said, and to Rory, it sounded as if he was holding back a sob. 

"Hell," Len Hartzke said. "I might just keep her for myself. That's why I'd hate to leave her. It would be such a waste." 

"What?" said Rory. 

"If she was a street girl, you wouldn't give a shit." 

"She came running to save you," Len Hartzke said. "And that's what she's going to do. The only question left is, are you gonna save her? Or are you gonna make me leave her behind?" 

"That's no choice at all," Jess said. 

"I want to stay," Rory said. 

"You don't know what you're saying," Jess said to her. He looked up, and in the lamplight he seemed pale and exhausted. 

"Tell me what's going on," she said. 

Jess pressed his lips together, shaking his head. "I'm so sorry." 

"Sorry about what?" Rory said. "Jess? Sorry about what?" 

"Choose," said Len Hartzke. 

"Take her," Jess said. 

"What?!" said Rory, feeling the words like a hard blow to the solar plexus. "Jess!" 

"Take her," Jess said, and he turned his head away. Len Hartzke let go of her, and she stumbled, her neck stiff and her back throbbing. Len grabbed her by the upper arms. He turned her away from Jess, and started to walk her down the street. 

"No!" Rory said. She began to fight. "Jess!" She struggled as hard as she could, resisting Len Hartzke. Len swept her off her feet, with an arm under her knees, and another around her shoulders. She writhed, kicking and hitting him with her fists. He didn't seem to care. Over Len's shoulder, she saw Jess, getting farther and farther away. He was still on the sidewalk, still on his knees. Len's twin brother--his name was Guy, she remembered finally--bounced back, sinking into a stance. He executed a side kick, nailing Jess right in the jaw. Rory watched, in horror, her mouth open. She saw a spray of blood as Jess rocked back, his arms flying. He fell, sprawling on the sidewalk. Rory couldn't tell if he was alive, or dead. Buddy and Guy jogged to catch up. She started to scream. 

"Jesus, she can really wail," Buddy Hartzke said. 

"Can't you shut her up?" Guy Hartzke asked. 

Len Hartzke was gripping Rory very tightly. "Sure," he said. "There's tape in the trunk."   
  


~ * ~

To be continued . . .

A/N: Happy New Year! I'm sorry you had to wait so long for an update. Thanks for your email, and all the reviews. I'm not sure if those were reviews from a lot of different people, or a lot of reviews from one person, but I appreciate the sentiment all the same, lol. I didn't feel pressured at all! 


	13. 13

13. 

This is very important. Rory got away from the Hartzke brothers before they got her to the car. This is how she was able to rescue herself, and save the day. She wriggled out of Len Hartzke's grasp. Her feet hit the pavement. The Hartzke brothers stood there looking stupidly at each other and saying, "What? What?" 

Rory darted past their outstretched hands, and scampered away. By the time they realized what was going on, she was around the corner. Right away, she saw a phone booth. It was in perfect working order. She snatched up the receiver. "9-1-1 Operator," said a voice. 

"Do you know where I am?" Rory said. 

"Of course," said the operator. "I have a fix on your position." 

"Send the police," said Rory. "An ambulance, too. My boyfriend is back there on the sidewalk, and he's really hurt!" 

"Already rolling," the operator said. "Stay on the line." 

"I can't." Rory looked over her shoulder. "The bad guys are after me." 

"Then you better run," the operator said. That's what Rory did, but first she made sure to leave the phone off the hook, so it could be a homing beacon. 

She heard them coming. They were swearing, and yelling things like: "You better stop!" and "We're gonna get you!" Rory ran along the chain link fence. She came to a place where there was a gate. There was a length of chain looped through the fence and the gate; it was padlocked. Rory shook the gate, and saw that there was some space, just enough room for a skinny girl. She inserted one shoulder. She ducked her head under the chain, and sucked in her stomach. She squeezed through. She was on the other side when the Hartzkes ran up. 

"Dammit!" yelled Len Hartzke. He hit the gate with his fist. He stuck his arm in the opening, and tried to grab Rory. She jumped back. Len couldn't get through. He was too big. Guy couldn't get through either, being exactly the same size as Len. Buddy was the biggest of all--there was no way in hell he could get through. 

"The police are coming!" Rory screamed. 

"Oh, shit," said Buddy. 

"Do you hear sirens?" asked Guy. 

"They'll be here any second!" she yelled. 

"Maybe we should forget the whole thing," said Buddy. 

"Let's call it even," Guy suggested. 

Len Hartzke had for some reason become obsessed with Rory. It was nothing personal. She was like the pot in a poker game. Jess had folded, and he had won her by default. People won all sorts of useless things in poker games, and kept them because they had won them. That was the only reason he wanted Rory. "We are not calling it even!" he howled. "Climb the fence!" 

Rory ran away. She stumbled over the rubble, and found a broken window. She climbed through, into the big green building. She found herself in the remains of an enclosed amusement arcade. The ceiling was partially collapsed. She could see the starry sky. She sneaked past a statue of a scary clown. There was debris everywhere, broken glass and chunks of plaster. Leaning against one wall were some of the wild-eyed wooden ponies from the decommissioned Merry-Go-Round. Rory had to be very careful where she walked, because sections of the floor were missing. In the darkness, there were plenty of places to hide. She ran into the Tunnel-Of-Love, and melted into the shadows. 

"Hey little girl," Len Hartzke called out. "Is your daddy home? Did he go out and leave you all alone?" 

Rory wrapped her arms around herself. Her heart was loud in her ears. Len Hartzke was a terrible person. Hating him was preferable to being afraid of him, so she decided she hated him. She could tell by the sound of his voice that he was nowhere near her. He had no idea where she was hiding. She could hear Buddy and Guy Hartzke arguing. They wanted to leave. Just then, there was a terrible creaking and groaning. Rory peeked out and saw the floor collapse under the Hartzke brothers. When the dust settled, and stuff stopped falling, she came out of her safe place. She padded up to the edge of the hole. She waved her hand in front of her face because the cloud of dust was making her eyes water. She looked down. She could plainly see that they were all dead. 

"That's that," she said, brushing off her hands. She let herself out of the amusement arcade, and ran back to Jess. There was a police car, and an ambulance. Jess was on a stretcher. He was very still. Two competent paramedics were working on him. "Is he all right?" she asked. 

One of the paramedics, an African-American man with a kindly face, looked up at her and smiled. He said: "We got here just in time. He's going to be fine." 

"I was so worried," she said. 

The other paramedic was a Latino boy with slightly pointy ears. "You're very brave," he said. "You can ride in the bus with him." 

Jess opened his eyes. "Rory," he said. "I didn't mean to betray you. Can you ever forgive me?" 

"Let's get out of here," said the first paramedic. "You kids can sort that out later." They all got into the ambulance. They drove away under a police escort. Rory never went back to Asbury Park for as long as she lived, and that was a very long time. 

In the back seat of the car, Rory squirmed and made a muffled sound of protest. Len Hartzke had just leaned over, and pinched her on the thigh. He shoved up her skirt. Her head swam. Now he was touching her stocking; he slid his finger under the elastic. Her eyes became very wide. Here's the thing. All that stuff about being brave and saving the day--that's not what happened. It didn't happen like that at all.   


Buddy turned up a narrow, dirt road. Tree branches slid over the car like the spindly fingers of giant skeletons. The scraping sound made Rory cringe; sounds in general were bothering her. Light was bothering her too, but away from the main road, the darkness was almost complete. There were no other cars, and no more headlights. Back on the highway, the headlights from oncoming cars burned in the night, hurting her eyes. A headlight represented a person, maybe more than one. Every time a car approached, she'd experienced an intense moment of hope that grew in accordance with the proximity of the light. She'd held her breath, wishing. See me, she'd thought. Save me. Rescue me. The cars disappeared behind them, and every time, the crushing weight of disappointment was a wallop almost as tangible as the one she had received earlier from Guy Hartzke. 

What had Jess done to her? 

She didn't know where the brothers were taking her, but she thought that if they had reached the dirt road portion of the journey, they must be almost at the end. What would happen at the end of the dirt road? What were they going to do to her? The brothers had been ignoring her mostly, talking to each other in low voices and smoking the occasional cigarette. In her mind, they were enormous. Unstoppable. She thought they probably stomped through life, doing whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. They took anything they fancied, even if it was a human person, like a girl who was only seventeen years old. Rory had thought the delicate web of social mores that supervised the interaction of the sexes had been wearing a little thin when Dean took her into the bushes; it seemed it didn't apply at all to the Hartzke brothers. These men existed in a twilight, retrograde world where men did as they pleased, simply because they could, and women had to let them do it or else they got hit, and were carried away against their will. 

There was also the small issue of her boyfriend selling her. He had sold her to these men to get himself out of a jam. How could he have done that? He had told her he loved her. She didn't understand. How could Jess tell her he loved her, and then betray her? It was like he had wanted to punish her for disobeying him. She hadn't meant to get out of the car! One cold thought kept resurfacing, no matter how hard she tried to stuff it down. This thought had inserted itself very neatly at the top of her brain, and she couldn't ignore it. Had Jess been planning this all along? 

Rory looked out the window. If the people in those other cars didn't want to help her, they could go to hell. It was useless to hope someone would rescue her from the Hartzke brothers. No one knew where she was! She would have liked to think she could rescue herself, but when they were still in Asbury Park she'd had a chance to get away, and she'd failed.No other opportunity had presented itself. She had worn herself out with her restless, uncontrolled worrying. She had to pull herself together. She had to start preparing herself. Although the Hartzke brothers hadn't messed with her too much, she was resigning herself to the eventuality of being messed with a great deal. She wasn't stupid. The thing that came next--she knew what that was. Hadn't Jess been blathering incessantly on the subject for the last twenty-four hours? She had already lost the battle. It was going to happen to her. It was inevitable. She was glad now, to be away from the light. No one could see her in the dark. Since she didn't know what it was going to be like, or how she was going to hold up, maybe that was for the best.   


The car bounced on the rutted road. Rory hadn't thought it possible, but she was starting to feel even worse. She had thought she was already feeling as bad as a person could feel. She braced her feet to stop from sliding. If she smashed into the seat in front of her, she might just break her nose. She wasn't wearing a seatbelt, and she couldn't grab anything. Her wrists were taped together in front of her with duct tape. Her shoulders ached from the unnatural position, and the tape was unpleasantly sticky, yanking at the invisible hairs on her arms and the backs of her hands. A rectangle of tape was plastered to her lips, effectively sealing her mouth. She had screamed a lot, and the brothers hadn't wanted to listen to her scream anymore. At the corner of her mouth, a strand of her hair was caught under the tape. It pulled. It didn't hurt as much as her swollen cheek hurt, but still. It was irritating. 

She could really only think of things on a very small scale. Her thoughts were disordered; they had a tendency to fly right out of her head. Her heart raced in chaotic bursts. Her mouth was dry. She was perspiring. She was having trouble paying attention; for example, the Hartzke brothers were talking to each other, and she couldn't follow the nuances of their conversation. Perhaps it was just that she was so afraid of these men she was reluctant to turn her full attention to them; they might in turn focus all their attention on her. Rory was getting so scared that the sensation of being scared was like a feral creature gnawing on her insides. She hadn't had time to become acclimatized to being this scared. She hadn't yet moved to the place that comes after fear--the place that is more about emptiness than anything else. She was so tired! She felt that it was quite possible she could lose control of her muscles, or even her bodily functions. She was feeling slightly crazy_._ She wasn't sure she could control the expression on her face. She was trying really hard not to have an expression on her face. Soon she'd be numb, and that would make things a whole lot easier.   


About an hour earlier, back in Asbury Park, they had waited in the car with the engine running while Buddy ran out to buy food. Roughly, Len shoved Rory's head down in her lap. She hooked her arms clumsily over her knees. Her hands were cold and clammy, and bent over like that, it was really hard to breathe. Her heart began to beat much too quickly, and her throat closed up. She started to feel like she was choking. Looking at the floor of the car, she began to get dizzy, and everything got grey around the edges. She could hear odd things, music and women's voices. Although the voices were faint and not very clear over the idling engine, one of them sounded awfully like her mother. Rory could have howled in anguish. She wanted her mother so badly! She had a vision of her mom, walking up and down the street, showing everyone her picture and asking: "Have you seen this girl?" She had another vision. This one was of her mother meeting up with Buddy Hartzke. She shuddered, and had to struggle to keep from throwing up. She didn't want her mother anywhere near the Hartzke brothers. 

Rory wasn't able to look, to see who the woman was. Len held her down, in a very uncomfortable position, so people wouldn't see that the Hartzke brothers had a young girl tied up in the back of their car. Could that woman have been Lorelai? No. Rory knew it wasn't possible. She had been hallucinating. Her mom had no idea where she was. That was the point at which Rory became convinced she was going to die. She had never felt so alone. The fact that she was in the custody of the Hartzke brothers was very bad. Being tied up and gagged was a dark, dark horror. 

  


As they drove along the bumpy road, Rory distracted herself with vivid fantasies of the Hartzke brothers dying hideous, painful deaths. She thought up several good ways to kill them. She imagined that they were chasing her. She led them across a train yard and they got mowed down by an Amtrak train. Whoops. She told herself these little stories, but they weren't very comforting. She was trying to withdraw. She needed to shield herself somehow, and she didn't have a whole lot of options. I can't be there, she was thinking. When it happens, the thing that's going to happen next, I have to put myself somewhere else. 

She couldn't even use her anger at Jess to fuel her furnace, because there was a strong possibility that Jess was dead. He had seemed very dead, the last time she had seen him. He'd sold her to these wretched men to save his own skin. The sheer magnitude of the betrayal was staggering, and almost the worst thing in a night of very bad things. But it looked like the Hartzke brothers had gone and killed him anyway. Thinking of Jess made her want to cry. She couldn't cry. She'd smother. She tried to put him out of her mind. 

They had almost arrived at their destination, she could tell. Buddy was driving more slowly, and the brothers had fallen silent in the manner of people who are ready for their trip to be over. Rory sat up in her seat so she could peer between Buddy and Guy Hartzke's heads. She wanted to have a look. Probably, this was the place that she was going to die. She wanted to see it ahead of time. She was sort of curious. She still had it in her, to be curious about things. For instance, she had some business to take care of, and she was curious about how she was going to manage it. If she couldn't escape, she had to find a way to do one little thing. If the Hartzke brothers didn't kill her right away--if they thought they were going to keep her around for a long time, and do things to her--she had to kill herself. She had already decided that. 

  


They pulled up to an older, two-story house, on a woodsy, overgrown lot. Off to the side, there were a couple of cars up on blocks. At the far end of the driveway there was a big shed, and beyond that, a garden. Rory saw the tomato stakes in light from the headlights, just before Buddy turned off the car. She hadn't been able to see whether the garden was well-tended, but the fact of its existence gave birth to a wild, improbable hope. The Hartzkes didn't strike her as big gardening types. There was something about them that didn't scream "domestic." Could it be that there was a woman here? If there was a woman in this house, maybe that meant that the Hartzke brothers wouldn't hurt her too badly. How could a woman stand by as a young girl got hurt, and do nothing? Maude hadn't known Rory, and she'd helped her. Women naturally helped other women, they just had to, it was one of the rules. If there was a woman, she'd see what was going on. She'd call the police right away. Rory thought all those thoughts in a quick flash. She was aware, in some corner of her mind, that she was constructing yet another elaborate and unlikely rescue scenario, but she was at this point grasping at straws. She slipped on the idea of a rescue as easily as a pair of fuzzy slippers; it would keep her warm for the next sixty seconds. If she was going to get through this, she had to hang on from one minute to the next. 

She waited for the Hartzkes to let her out of the car. It had been a long drive to get to this place. Rory wasn't familiar with the area, and she had lost track of time. She seemed to be losing track of things in general. She had lost track of Jess, she had lost track of her sweater, and sitting in the back seat of the car with Len Hartzke brooding beside her while he toyed idly with her skirt, she had sort of lost track of herself. It had been difficult to think coherent thoughts, with Len Hartzke touching her. It had been all she could do to stop herself from shuddering in revulsion. She hadn't wanted to make him angry with her. He'd been picking at the hem of her skirt, sliding it up her thigh. She had tried to stop him by fidgeting and moving her leg. He just kept touching her. At one point, he'd leaned forward to say something to Guy. He had put his hand on her leg and left it there for quite a while as she grew tense and desperate. It had been like he wanted to prove that he could touch her, if he wanted to. She guessed he thought she belonged to him now. Maybe this was what it was going to be like. Whatever it was that was going to happen to her was going to happen in stages. Len was going to touch her a lot more, soon. Maybe they were all going to touch her; she had no way of knowing. There wouldn't be anything she could do about that, either. Throughout the drive, she had sat beside Len, hating him and hating herself for being so weak, and she had let him touch her. She had tried not to think about it. 

Len was angry with Guy because he had messed up her face. Heated words had been exchanged, and Rory had the presence of mind to hope they'd get mad enough to kill each other. They seemed like the sort of guys who could get that mad. While they were still in Asbury Park, she had tried to escape. This is what really happened. When they got to the car, Len put her on her feet. She darted around him, and tried to run away. He grabbed the back of her sweater. Her sweater was unbuttoned and she slid right out of it. That was one layer of clothing wasted for nothing. Guy Hartzke caught her. He was laughing, like it was very funny she would think she could get away from them. He struck her with an open hand. It hurt a surprising amount. 

She fell, scraping her knee and getting a run in her stockings.Bewildered, she knelt in the road; she couldn't quite remember how she had gotten down there. Guy Hartzke hauled her up by her collar. He bent her over the hood of the car. He pressed her sore cheek to the metal, pinning her with a hand to the back of her neck. Her toes barely reached the pavement. He shoved one of his legs between hers, and she moaned. "Shut up," he said. 

Buddy Hartzke was messing around in the trunk. "I can't see it," he complained. "There's everything in here but the kitchen sink." 

"Dammit," Len said. "You just don't want to look." 

"You look." Buddy stood up, stretching. "If you're so good at it." 

"Fine," said Len "I will." 

"Excuse me," Rory said to Guy Hartzke. 

"It's this thing," Len was saying. "You don't want to look for stuff." 

"He's lazy," Guy said. 

"You can let me up now," said Rory. At that point, despite what she had witnessed, despite the fact that Jess was on the sidewalk somewhere back there, despite the fact that she had just been hit--in the face!--she was clinging to the notion that these men were people like other people, and could be reasoned with. 

"Don't gang up on me," Buddy said. "You guys are always ganging up on me." 

"Please let me up now," said Rory. 

"Here it is," said Len Hartzke, coming forward. 

When Guy Hartzke let her stand, Rory saw that Len had a thick roll of duct tape. "Oh, no," she said, dismayed. 

"Hold her hands," Len Hartzke said. 

"You don't have to do this!" she said. She felt like she was deep under water and surfacing way too fast. 

Len was fiddling with the roll of tape. He turned it over in his hands. "I can't see where it ends," he said irritably. 

Guy was holding out her wrists. Rory strained, her fists clenched. She was trying to pull away from him. "I don't want you to do this!" she said shrilly. "I don't want you to tie me up!" They did it anyway.   


There was more evidence of a female presence inside the house: floral curtains, slip covers, figurines, dried wild flowers. When Buddy Hartzke sat down, he had to move a large pile of dresses, all different styles and colors, all inexplicably still on their hangers. The house had been dark and silent; the first thing they'd done was turn on the lights. Guy had wandered around flicking switches, while Len got out his cell phone. Dialing, Len headed down the hall, deeper into the house. Rory had turned away from the light, squinting. Buddy had taken her by the upper arm. He'd guided her into the livingroom, talking over her head to Guy. It was something about a warehouse. Rory, who'd had a tight little headache pulsing at the corner of her eye, hadn't been able to follow the discussion. 

The Hartzke brothers had eaten the take-out food. Now they were watching a boxing match on television. Rory had assumed they would proceed directly to the raping, but apparently even bad guys needed some unstructured down time. Len and Guy were sitting on the sofa, with their feet on the coffee table. Rory was sure they weren't allowed to do that. The lady who owned the little figurines would never let them put their stinky feet on her nice coffee table. She would probably swat them with a magazine, and tell them to sit up straight. Rory bet this was their mother's house. She wished their mother would come home. She'd see Rory all tied up, and call the police. Breathing shallowly through her nose, Rory tried to stop herself from getting overexcited. There was no woman here. No woman was coming. She had to stop thinking that someone was going to materialize, and get her out of this mess. 

Buddy reclined in a Barcalounger, with his feet up. He had really big feet, and his socks were dirty. Rory could see this because she had a very good view of the bottom of his feet. She was on the floor, leaning awkwardly against the wall, tucked between the plasma TV and a stack of DVD players in their original boxes. She could watch the Hartzkes, which she didn't, and they could watch her, which they did. Whenever she lifted her head, which she was trying not to do, she caught them looking. She couldn't see the television screen, except out of the corner of her eye. She didn't care. Rory was against boxing. She had seen 'When We Were Kings,' and 'Ali,' and while she had appreciated the films as historical documents, she was largely unmoved by the glorious history of boxing. Letting yourself get hit in the face was stupid; she could attest to that first hand. 

She had her legs drawn up beside her. Despite vigorous if somewhat stifled opposition on her part, they had taped her ankles together. They had however, finally agreed to remove the tape from her mouth. Buddy had ripped it off a couple of hours ago, saying: "On the count of three, okay?" She had nodded, and he'd said: "One, two--" but he ripped off the tape before he said "three." Some of her hair had gone with it. Rory had gasped, tossing back her head so she could fill her lungs. She was grateful to him for removing the tape. She had been so frightened, with her mouth glued shut. Her nose had been running. The brothers had been afraid she might suffocate. She had been afraid of that, too. The Hartzkes had conducted a desultory discussion on the issue--stopping at one point to refresh their drinks--before deciding to take the tape off. Rory hadn't been crying, exactly. Okay, she had been a little, from nerves. Mainly her eye was tearing up, from where she had been hit. 

"Excuse me," she'd said, as soon as the tape was gone. She'd peered past Buddy, who had been crouched in front of her. He had taken a lock of her hair between his fingers. Her hair was wavy; there hadn't been a blow dryer back at the motel. Buddy had been pulling on one of her curls. He let go, and it sprang back into place. She had turned her head away, trying to ignore him. She had been directing her comment to Len Hartzke, because she perceived him to be the one in charge. She'd cleared her throat. "Excuse me," she had said more loudly. 

Len Hartzke had looked at her. "Move," he'd said to his brother, and Buddy had gone back to his chair. Len's pale eyes had been cold. "You don't want to be bothering me right now," he'd said. 

"I need to know what you're going to do with me," she'd said 

"I'm busy right now," Len Hartzke had said. He seemed to lose interest in her. Rory had looked down at her bound hands, blinking rapidly, feeling small and helpless. 

"Excuse me," she said, now. It had taken her all this time to get up the nerve to talk again. She took a deep breath, waiting to see what would happen. 

"She has a pretty way of talking," Buddy commented, to the room at large. "You have a pretty way of talking," he told Rory, in case she'd missed it the first time. 

"What are you going to do with me?" Rory asked Len Hartzke. 

He grunted. "I'm going to hook you up on heroin, and sell you to a Mexican whorehouse," he said. He crossed his arms over his chest, and went back to watching television. 

"What?" said Rory, appalled. There was an ugly taste at the back of her throat. She had to swallow several times. 

Guy Hartzke laughed. 

"A whore--whorehouse?" Rory asked. "In Mexico?" 

"Shut up," said Len Hartzke. 

"Wait," she said. "Isn't that the plot of a Kevin Costner movie?" 

"Ugh," said Buddy Hartzke. "I'm not crazy about Kevin Costner." 

"He's so boring," agreed Guy Hartzke. 

"Mr. Big Shot," said Buddy. "Look at me! I'm Kevin Costner!" 

"Remember the Elvis thing?" Guy said. 

"What?" said Buddy. "The movie with Snake Plissken?" 

"Yeah," said Guy, "and the girl from the TV show." 

"That movie was very insulting against Elvis," Buddy said. "I think there should be a law about that." 

"There should be a law about insulting Elvis?" Guy asked. 

"I just need to know what you're going to do," Rory said to Len Hartzke. 

"Yeah," Buddy said to Guy. "A law that you're not allowed to do it!" 

"I only let him take the tape off because I thought you were going to choke on your own snot," Len Hartzke said to Rory. 

"You're a prince among men," Rory said sourly. 

"I can put the tape back on," Len Hartzke said. 

"I'll be quiet," Rory said quickly. 

"Good," said Len. "I would appreciate that." 

Guy sat up straight. "Snake Plissken?" he said to Buddy. "Snake Plissken? He's not a real person!" 

"Whatever," said Buddy. 

"You don't know the difference between fantasy and reality," Guy Hartzke said. 

"Jesus," said Len Hartzke irritably. "Neither do you." 

"Look who's talking," Buddy said. He sounded miffed.   


One time, Rory found a Stephen King book. Someone had dropped it on the bus. She had been intrigued; it was a big fat book, 1141 pages long, and she had wondered what Stephen King could possibly have to say that took up so many pages. The book was called 'The Stand,' and although she didn't usually read Stephen King--she didn't like to be scared--she ended up reading that book. 

Afterwards, she had been a little embarrassed to have wasted her time on such lowbrow entertainment. She had read parts of it on the way to school, holding the book in such a way that no one would be able to see the cover. The story was about America, after an apocalyptic flu epidemic had killed most of the people. There were a lot of characters, but the one whose story had twigged Rory's interest had been Frannie. Frannie had been pregnant and very vulnerable. Since the world had changed so drastically, she hadn't known how she was going to take care of herself and her baby. 

Rory had been affected by Frannie's story. She remembered one part in particular, where Frannie was thinking about the fact that since society was gone, so were all of the rules that protected women. She had been thinking that she needed to hook herself up with a man, another one of the survivors, because a man would stand between her and the threat of the uncivilized world. That was your man was supposed to do, or so Rory had thought. He wasn't supposed to tell you that he loved you, and then forget you. He wasn't supposed to say he wanted to take care of you, and then abandon you. He wasn't supposed to kneel at the foot of your bed with his head bent and one arm twined around your leg, and then turn around and sell you off like a cow at the market. Rory knew she was in a strange country, now. Did she need to hook up with a man? Was that the only way she could save herself? What would she be prepared to do? This is what she had been thinking about when the telephone rang. 

"Phone," said Guy Hartzke, scratching his head. 

Buddy got up. He walked right past the phone table. "Aren't you going to get that?" asked Len Hartzke. 

"Nope," said Buddy cheerfully. "But I'll get you a beer." He disappeared down the hall. 

"Get one for me," Guy said. 

"Is someone going to get that phone?" Len said angrily. "All I ever do is talk on the phone. I'm not the frickin' secretary." He got up and rounded the sofa. 

"Jeez," said Guy. "I'll get it." He got up, too. 

"Oh, no, let me do it." Len snagged the phone. "Yeah?" he said rudely. He rolled his eyes. "Oh, Gran. How are you?" 

"Heh," said Guy, backing away. "Tell her I said hello." 

Len shot him an irritated look. Into the phone he said, "You should have let me call. I told you I was going to call. It's long distance. No, I was working tonight. Look, hang up and I'll call you back. No, I'll call you back right away. Yes, I will call you back." He sighed. "I want the charge to be on my phone bill," he said. 

"Who is it?" Buddy called from the kitchen. 

"Gran," said Guy. "Heh." 

"Tell her I said 'hi!'" Buddy shouted. 

Len covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "I'm not telling her any of you said anything. You're not getting credit for talking to her unless you actually do some of the talking." He spoke into the phone. "Gran . . . yes . . . well, that's very interesting. I'm hanging up now, and I'm going to call you right back. Yes, I will call you right back. Okay? Okay? All right. Here I go. This is me, hanging up. Don't go anywhere. I'll talk to you in two seconds, okay?" He hung up and got out his cell phone. "Jeez," he said, starting to dial. 

"So," said Guy. He was laughing. "How's Gran?" 

"Shut up," said Len. 

The hall phone rang again. Len looked at his cell, sighing. He put it away, and picked up the other phone. "Gran," he said. "I knew it was you." He put his hand over the receiver. He hissed, "Who told her how the speed dial works?" 

Buddy came back with some beers. He was grinning. "I did," he said. "It was a way to distract her from trying to program the clock on her VCR." 

"Twelve o'clock, twelve o'clock," intoned Guy, laughing. 

"Twelve o'clock, twelve o'clock," echoed Buddy. He was laughing, too. 

"Both of you shut the hell up," said Len. "No, Gran," he said into the phone. "Work is good." 

Buddy snorted. 

"Tell her you got a promotion," Guy said, giggling. "Tell her they made you head of the department." 

"Actually," Len was telling his grandmother, "I just met a girl." He winked at Rory. "Yes," he said. "She's nice. Very nice." 

Rory couldn't believe she had to listen to that. She felt like talons were squeezing her heart. How could he joke about having a girl tied up in his livingroom? Her eyes got blurry and she sniffed, trying not to cry. 

Len picked the phone up with two fingers under the cradle, and played out the long cord. He approached Rory. He crouched in front of her. "Yeah," he said into the mouthpiece. "Very pretty." He put a finger under Rory's chin, tilting back her head. He tucked the receiver against his shoulder. "I should give you a baby," he said. 

"What?" said Rory, horrified. 

"You'd like that wouldn't you? A baby? All girls want a baby." 

Rory didn't know what to say. She settled on: "Are you insane?" 

"You want to watch what you say to me," Len snapped. "I might not like it, and then where would you be?" 

"Please," said Rory, bowing her head. "Please leave me alone." 

He shrugged. "For now," he said, standing up. He dropped into a chair, throwing his leg over the arm, and went back to his conversation. 

Jess, thought Rory. How could you do this to me?!   


Could one of the Hartzke brothers be her ally? Maybe she could get one of them to stand up to the others, and say: This is crazy. We can't keep this girl. We have to let her go. Guy wasn't an option. He was much too scary, and he'd already hit her once. Len was the one who seemed to have the most interest in keeping her. A baby! She shuddered. The very idea was repellent, and not just because it would involve having sexual intercourse with him. She was beginning to think the brothers had no idea what to do with her. They had taken her to get back at Jess, and hadn't planned all that far ahead. She remembered Jess bitching about hillbillies in Connecticut; it had been his way of being mean about the eccentricities of the citizens of Stars Hollow. Rory was starting to feel like she had been captured by hillbillies right here in New Jersey. She had become the Lolly-Madonna. She was nothing more than a trophy in some absurd male feud. Could Buddy be her ally? Was there a way to get him to help her? He was the biggest. He was also sort of on the outside. The other two were twins; naturally, they would stick together. 

Len was still talking to his grandmother, when his cell phone rang. He flicked it out, and put it to his other ear, saying "Yeah?" He sat there with a phone to either ear. His face turned a slow shade of purple. Rory held her breath, watching. Len Hartzke had already been one of the top three most dangerous people she had ever met. Now, he was looking positively deadly. He got to his feet. He made a whistling noise, to get Buddy's attention. Buddy stood up, and Len motioned impatiently, until Buddy took the receiver from the hall phone. 

"Gran," Buddy said. "Hey, there. Leonard had another call. How are you?" He raised an eyebrow, and Len made an angry gesture. 

"The house in Newark," Len said, still listening to whoever was on the other end of his cell phone. 

"Shit," said Guy. 

"It's crawling with cops," Len said. 

"Well, well, well," said Guy. "I wonder who we have to thank for that." 

Len turned, and shot Rory a look. She blanched. What? she thought. What?! 

"Big mistake," said Buddy, covering the receiver so his grandmother wouldn't hear. "Not very smart." 

"The warehouse?" Guy asked. 

"The warehouse?" Len said into his cell. He listened. "He doesn't know," he reported to his brothers. "Nobody knows anything about what's going on at the warehouse." 

"So maybe the cops don't know about it," Buddy said. "Did what's-his-face know about the warehouse?" 

"Who knows what he knew or didn't know," said Guy. "So, what? We have to go all the way out there?" 

"And do what?" said Len. "Get arrested?" 

"I don't know," said Guy. "Secure the place. Shred things?" 

"There's nothing to shred!" said Len. "We never wrote anything down." 

"We could burn it down," suggested Buddy. 

"Why would we do that?" said Len, clearly exasperated. 

"For the fun of it?" Buddy said. 

"Start taking this seriously," Len snapped. 

"I am," said Buddy. "Sheesh. So, I like fires. Sue me." 

"He has a point," said Guy. "What if there's some little thing that links back to us? We could get rid of it all and be done with it." 

"I don't want to do that," said Len. "Not if we don't have to. I mean, that's everything, right there." 

"That little shit!" Buddy said, again covering the mouthpiece with his hand. "I didn't think he had the balls." 

"I kind of like the idea of getting rid of the inventory," Guy offered. 

"They're not looking for the inventory!" Len said explosively. 

"That's just it," Guy argued. "It's in plain sight. With that imminent danger bullshit they can get in wherever they want!" 

"You mean exigent circumstances," Buddy corrected. 

"It's the same difference!" Guy said irritably. 

"I'm just saying," Buddy said defensively. "They don't need a search warrant." 

"I just had a thought," Guy said. "Did he come out here for Jenny's birthday?" 

"I don't know," said Buddy. 

"I can't remember," said Len. "That was a hundred years ago." 

"You know what we have to do," Guy said. 

"No," said Len. 

"Gran," Buddy said quickly. "I gotta hang up, now. I just got called in to work." 

"Oh, come on!" said Guy. He looked over at Rory. 

"No!" said Len. 

"Great," said Guy. "That's just great!" 

"I'll take care of it right now," Buddy told Len. "It would take me two seconds." 

"I'm not making any decisions about her until I know exactly what's going on," Len said. 

"Think with your head," Guy said. 

"That means your brain," Buddy clarified. 

"Watch it," said Len. 

"Do I have to spell it out for you?" Guy snapped. 

"Oh, would you?" said Len. 

"For starters," Guy said. "She knows what we look like." 

"Everybody knows what we look like," said Buddy. 

"Everybody's not tied up in our livingroom," Guy snapped. "What is she--fifteen?" 

"Give me a little credit," Len Hartzke said. "That's why she's never leaving." 

Rory got very cold. Later, she never could remember how the discussion ended.   


"Wake up." 

Rory opened her eyes. She had slid down against the wall. One of the twins was prodding her with his foot. "Stop that," she said, feeling fuzzy. She struggled to upright herself. 

"You're really flat," he said. 

"What?" She had recognized him as Guy. Guy had a certain way of oozing meanness. 

"Personally, I prefer a woman with a little more going on up top," Guy said. He squatted in front of her. 

"I think it's a bit much to kidnap someone, and then complain their boobs are too small," Rory snapped. "You should have thought of that ahead of time." 

"We never kidnaped you," Guy said, making a face. 

Rory held up her bound hands, and raised an eyebrow. 

Guy Hartzke shrugged. 

Rory looked around, blinking. She was starting to get a funny feeling. "Where are the others?" she said uneasily. 

"I'm not in the business of accounting for my brothers' whereabouts," he said. "And you're not in a position to be asking." 

"Say," she said. "Why don't you untie me? Couldn't you untie me now?" 

"I don't need to untie you," he said quietly. 

There was a vibe. Rory could almost see the little wavy lines radiating off him. Her breath caught in her throat. She had expected to be raped. To the extent that it was possible, she had been preparing herself for it. But she had thought that when it happened, whoever did it would at least take her somewhere dark and private. 

"Oh," she whispered. "No. Don't--" 

He grabbed her. While she was struggling, her blouse ripped at the shoulder. It was when he bent her legs at the knee, and tried to get his hand between her thighs, that she succumbed to full-blown panic. She would have done anything to get away from him. Wildly, she swung her arms, socking him in the face. She didn't have much leverage, and couldn't hit him very hard. They were both surprised; him so much so that he dumped her off his lap. "Ow!" he yelped. "You bitch!" 

She tumbled to the floor in an ungainly heap. She heard laughing. Buddy had come down the hall. "Hah," he said. "She get you in the nose?" 

"Yes!" said Guy. "Dammit!" 

"How much does she weigh?" said Buddy. "I guess I'm finding this funnier than I should." 

"Jesus!" said Guy, getting to his feet. He kicked Rory in the hip, and she groaned. 

"Mister Karate expert," Buddy said. He danced around, waving his arms and making karate sound effects with his mouth. 

"Shut the hell up!" Guy said. He picked up his coat. 

"Where are you going?" Buddy said. "He said not to go anywhere." 

"I'm taking a walk!" yelled Guy. "Get off my back!" 

With some convoluted twisting, Rory was able to get to her knees. She had to appeal to Buddy; she had no other choice. "Pardon me," she said, gasping. "Uh, Buddy?" Tears were dripping down her face. "Would you-I need help. You can see that, right? Would you help me?" 

He seemed intrigued. "Help you do what?" 

Rory broke down and sobbed. This was like being at the Mad Hatter's Tea Party--the night it was crashed by the Hells Angels. "Untie me," she begged. "Help me get away!" 

"Oh," he said. "I can't do that." 

"Why not?" she cried. 

"Because I don't want to."   


Buddy tossed her over his shoulder without breaking a sweat. That was how strong he was, or more properly, how small and insignificant she was. She was very put out; his hand was heavy on the back of her thighs, and she suspected he had a nice view of her underpants. She was trying to hold up her head. She didn't want to pass out again. She might miss something important. For her own safety, she needed to keep track of the comings and goings of the Hartzke brothers. She'd told Buddy she needed to use the bathroom. Between hitching breaths, she had explained that to use the bathroom, she would require the use of her hands. She had been lying about needing the bathroom; she didn't have to go. What she needed was to be untied. The fact that she had been crying had helped her case. Men were somewhat flustered by crying girls. 

Buddy had tried to take off the tape, but he couldn't. There was too much of it, and it had melded together. He was taking her into the kitchen to find something to cut it, rather than go get something to cut it, and bring it back to her. It would be a change of scenery. She had been sitting on the floor by the television for a very long time. 

Rory was frustrated. People kept picking her up. She was starting to wish she was really, really fat. She wanted to become a monolith, immense and unmovable, impervious to the touch of mere mortals. A lyric popped into her head: 'I had a dream, that I weighed three hundred pounds. And though I was very heavy, I floated 'til I couldn't see the ground.' 

The line was from a song by the Barenaked Ladies, called 'Brian Wilson.' The song was about being depressed. Brian Wilson, who was one of the Beach Boys, had quite often been depressed. Rory thought a song about depression was very appropriate to her situation. She had been with the Hartzke brothers for so long, it seemed like she had been with them forever. The nastiness of the situation was now the substance of her life. The crazed, fatiguing fear that had plagued her at the outset was still there in her head and in her heart. All she had to do to find that fear was think of it; it was never further away than the jump from one synapse to another. The fear was like a great pool of water, and she was continually sticking in her toe, to test the temperature. Still cold? Yep. Still cold. But being scared was no longer uppermost in her mind. Her thoughts were scattered, but she was able to think; for example, having thought of the Beach Boys, logically the next thing she thought of was Charles Manson. An interesting but creepy piece of rock and roll trivia was that the Beach Boys had known Charles Manson. They put a song he wrote on one of their albums. The song was called, 'Never Learn Not to Love,' which was ludicrous, coming from Charles Manson. 

Buddy unceremoniously dumped her in a kitchen chair. Using both her hands, since they were taped together, Rory pulled her skirt down. Sternly, she told herself to stop thinking about Charles Manson. She had enough to worry about. 

As far as interior design went, the kitchen was unique. It could have been decorated by Frank from Trading Spaces. The walls were stenciled with geckos, or maybe they were salamanders. There was a window with fussy, puffy curtains. In the corner, a Raggedy Andy flopped in a rocking chair. He was a goth Raggedy Andy, with black hair instead of red. She shivered, wondering if he came alive and wandered the house when nobody was around. The counter by the sink was littered with empty beer cans, and there was a Lava Lamp on top of the bread box. On one wall there was a folk art painting, and on another, a poster advertising 'Clarence Clemons, Live at the Stone Pony.' The poster had been scavenged; it had rips in all four corners from staples. 

Scrawled across the border above the kitchen cabinets was the phrase: 'Love is a banquet on which we feed.' Rory thought it odd, and out of context, but she knew the Hartzkes were Springsteen fans. They had been quoting him back in Asbury Park. The graffiti craft projects clashed with the quaint furniture, and the overall style was reminiscent of a country kitchen by way of Jim Morrison's grave in the Pere-Lachaise Cemetery. Bemused, Rory wondered if hippie pilgrims sometimes camped out in the Hartzke brothers' kitchen. During her examination of the room, she saw that at the end of the kitchen counter, there was a door. A back door. A door that led to the outside. She looked at it once, and looked quickly away. "Cool, huh?" said Buddy, referring to the decorations. 

"You bet," she said insincerely. 

"Guy's wife did it," he said, rooting around in a drawer. 

"He's married?" said Rory, shocked. Who would marry a person like Guy Hartzke? 

"Oh, sure," Buddy said. "So's Len. They both got married right out of high school." 

"Are they married to identical twins?" Rory asked. 

"No," said Buddy. "Why?" 

"They're twins," she said. She wasn't especially interested in the subject, but she was the one who had brought it up. "Sometimes they do that. Twins marry another set of twins." 

"Huh," Buddy said. "Anyhow, Len just got separated." 

"Oh," said Rory, not caring. 

"She's breaking his heart," said Buddy. "It's making him be stupid over you." 

"That's a shame," Rory said. "For all concerned." 

"She wasn't anybody's twin," Buddy said. "She was just a bitch." 

"Was she?" said Rory. 

"You know," he said. "I used to have a twin, too." 

"Really?" she said. "What happened to him?" 

"He was stillborn. Just like Elvis' twin." 

"Oh," she said. She didn't know what she was supposed to say to that. To be polite, she said, "I'm sorry." 

"Nah," he said. "I just made that up." 

"Oh," she said, confused. 

"I just said that for the hell of it." He turned. He was holding a sharp fillet knife. 

"Gack!" said Rory. 

Buddy knelt in front of her. She hesitated, then held out her hands. She turned her head away. He sawed on the tape that bound her hands. "How did you like the Palace?" he asked. "Did you ever go there before?" 

"The what?" 

"Palace Amusements," he said. "You know, where we met you." 

"Where you met me," she said. She was thinking: This guy is an idiot. 

"Yeah," he said. "It's famous." 

"Oh," she said. "Right. The Palace. Some of the letters were missing." 

"That's our trademark," he said. 

"Whose trademark?" she asked. 

"Us," he said. "Because of the twins." 

"Which twins?" 

"Tillie," he said. 

"I'm sorry?" 

"The face on the wall. You saw the face, right?" 

"Yeah," she said. "I saw the face." 

"He's called 'Tillie,'" he said. "And there's two of him." 

"I'm not following," she said. 

"He's a twin, and Len and Guy are twins," he said very slowly, as if he thought Rory was the stupid one. "That's why it's our trademark." 

"I don't get the trademark part," she said. 

"We always meet people there," he said. 

"Oh." Her heart sped up. "So," she said casually. "I guess everybody knows that, right?" 

"Yeah," he said. "More or less." He freed her hands. "There you go." 

She held them up, breathing a sigh of relief. "Let me do my feet," she said. 

"No, I'll do your feet," he said. 

Rory held onto the seat of the chair, appreciating the fact that she could move her hands independently of each other. She was thinking about what Buddy had just said. As far as she knew, Jess was still on the sidewalk in front of Palace Amusements. He could be unconscious. He could be in a coma. He could be . . . 

She swallowed. Whatever state he was in, if everybody knew that the Palace was the 'trademark' of the Hartzke brothers, then a body on the sidewalk in front of the Palace was a link back to the Hartzkes. Whoever found Jess would know who had done that to him. If the police came looking for the Hartzkes because of Jess, they would find her. That was a concrete rescue scenario. There was only one possible snag. "So," she said. "This is a nice house." 

"Oh yeah?" he said. 

"Is--is it your house?" she asked. 

"Sure," he said. 

"But who owns it?" she asked. 

"We do," he said. 

"Ah," said Rory. 

"It belongs to us," Buddy said. 

"Okay," said Rory. 

"You really like it?" he asked. 

"Uh-huh," she said. 

"So, you want to live here, right?" 

"I'm sorry?" 

"Because you like it. You just said so." 

"Oh," she said. 

"You just said you liked it." 

"I do," she said. 

"Good," said Buddy. "Because you're going to live here. So, you should like it." 

Rory could have screamed. She took a deep breath. "I was just wondering whose house it was," she said. 

"I already told you," he said impatiently. "It's ours." 

She decided to be blunt. "Whose name is it in?" 

"Oh, that," he said. "Why didn't you say so? It's in the name of our second cousin on our mother's side." He grinned. "Actually, she doesn't even know. She's in a nursing home." 

Inside, Rory died a little. 

"Papers," he said. "Legal mumbo-jumbo. This is never coming off." He meant the tape on her ankles. It was stuck to her stockings. 

"I don't know how much that matters now," she said bleakly. She was so disappointed. She wanted to curl up in a corner and waste away. 

"I thought you had to go to the bathroom," he said. 

"I do," she said tiredly. 

"Your knee is bleeding," he observed. He finished cutting her ankles apart. "That's ruined," he said, pointing to her stockings. 

"Leave it," she said tiredly. 

"I'll just cut off the extra tape," he said. "Len is gonna be mad. He liked it when you were all fresh." 

"Maybe he can find himself a new girl," Rory said. "One who's not so messy." 

"Oh, no," said Buddy. "He likes you." He looked up at her. "So do I," he said. "I guess we all do." 

Rory swallowed, feeling weak. 

"You can put a Band-Aid on your knee in the bathroom." He touched her cheek, startling her. She leaned back in her chair, uncertain. "That looks kind of bad," he said. "There's no point to a girl who's not pretty." He got up, and went to the refrigerator. He opened the freezer. A puff of cold air blew out. He handed Rory a bag of frozen peas. 

"I'm not that hungry," she said. 

"Put it on your face." 

She put her elbow on the table, and held the bag of frozen peas to her sore cheek. 

"How does that feel?" he asked. 

"Fine," she said. 

With one hand, he pulled out a chair, and turned it around. He straddled it, leaning forward. "So," he said. "You're going to have a baby for Len." 

"Holy crap," she said. 

He laughed. 

"He wasn't serious about that, was he?" 

Buddy shrugged. "Who knows?" 

"I can't have a baby," she said desperately. "Remember when I told you I was HIV positive?" 

"You don't have AIDS," he said. "I'm sure I could tell if you did." 

"You can't tell just by looking," she said. The frozen peas were too cold. She put the bag on the table. 

"Well, you look fine," he said. 

"That has nothing to do with anything," she said quickly. She didn't want him to start talking about the way she looked. 

"Do you sometimes wear your hair in different ways?" he asked. 

She groaned inwardly. Here we go, she thought. "I am not having anybody's baby," she said firmly. She closed her eyes. "If anyone thinks--" She started over, enunciating very carefully. "If anyone thinks that they are going to--" She couldn't say the words. Nervously, she wrung her hands. "They have to wear a condom," was all that she could get out. She felt like she was two people, one who was talking, and one who was watching from very far away. 

"Huh," he said. "That's very interesting." 

"What?" 

"That you should be the one to bring up condoms." 

"Why is that?" she asked. 

"Because now you can't say it's rape," he said, and there it was. The word 'rape' was on the table. 

"Are you kidding me?" she said angrily. "It's rape because I don't want anyone to do it." 

"No." He shook his head. "You said to use a condom. A judge in Texas said that makes it not be a rape." 

"That was ten years ago," she said. She knew what case he was talking about, even though it had happened when she was only seven years old. In Austin, Texas, a woman had been raped. She had begged the rapist to wear a condom, because she didn't want to get AIDS. The first prosecuting attorney had thought that in requesting a condom, the victim was giving her consent. The rapist had been carrying a knife. "In the end," she said, "a grand jury did indict that guy." 

"I don't remember that part," he said. "I think you're wrong." 

Rory was stunned. Ten years later, it had become a different story. The details were part of recorded history, but the lesson he had learned was the wrong lesson. Was that the lesson everybody had learned? She couldn't believe she was sitting at the kitchen table calmly discussing rape with Buddy Hartzke, especially since what they were really talking about was her own rape. They were talking about the fact that the Hartzke brothers were going to rape her. 

Buddy got up and opened the refrigerator. "You want a beer?" he asked. 

"No thank you," she said. "I don't feel well." She got up, too. She began to edge her way toward the back door. 

He turned, and looked at her. "You can't get out that way," he said. "It's locked." 

"Just let me go," she begged. "Please don't keep me here." 

"I'm not letting you go," he said. "Your boyfriend gave you to us." 

"I wasn't his to give!" she said. 

"He gave you away anyway," Buddy said. 

Rory took a small step forward. "Is Jess dead?" she asked. 

"What?" said Buddy. He looked amused. 

"Please tell me," she pleaded. "I was too far away. I couldn't see." 

"I don't like to tell people things for free," he said, a crafty expression on his face. 

Rory was at a loss. "What do you want?" She clasped her hands together. She wasn't trying to be winsome. Now that her hands were free, she couldn't stop touching them. 

"I want you to kiss me," he said. 

"What?" 

"I'll tell you what you want to know," he said. "But you have to kiss me first." 

"Oh, no," she breathed. 

"You have to kiss me, but you have to kiss me like you mean it." 

"I can't," she said. She couldn't kiss him! There was no way she could kiss him and pretend it was for real. Susan Sarandon couldn't kiss him and pretend it was for real. 

"Then you'll never find out," he said. He crossed his arms over his chest. 

Rory was overwhelmed. She didn't know what to do. "Fine," she said quickly, before she could change her mind. She had to know. Even if Jess had sold her out, she hadn't had time to stop loving him. She had to know if he was still alive. 

"Cool," said Buddy, taking a step forward. 

Rory took a hasty step back. "Wait," she said, holding up her hand. "No. I thought I could, but I can't." She was shaking now and much too hot, like she had a fever."Tell me, or don't tell me," she said. "Maybe you're going to kiss me anyway. Maybe I can't stop you. But I won't kiss you." 

"Fine," he said angrily. "You know what? I will tell you. I'll tell you for free. He's dead." 

There was a roar, like the sound of the ocean. It took her a moment to realize it was coming from inside her head. She turned sharply, and vomited into the sink. 

"Ew," Buddy said, sounding totally disgusted. 

She ran the water to clean the sink. "I told you I didn't feel well," she said accusingly. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Now I really need to use the bathroom." 

"Whatever," said Buddy. He was feeling around in his pocket. "Hey. You want a Life Saver?"   


"I can walk!" she groused, as he pushed her up the stairs. At the bathroom, she tried to close the door, but he stuck out his foot. 

"Leave it open," he said. 

"I need some privacy," she said. "Come on." 

"This door locks on the inside," he said. 

"I can't go with you watching," she said. "Do you want me to wet my pants?" 

"The lock can't keep me out," he said. "I want you to understand that. I can break down this door. It would take me two seconds." 

"I understand," she said. 

"If I have to break down a door in my own house, I am going to be pissed," he explained. 

"I understand!" she said. 

"You don't want to get me pissed," said Buddy. "You would be a very sorry little girl." 

"I'm not moving in," Rory said. "I just want some privacy." 

He stepped back, and let her close the door. She locked it right away. Now she was alone. She looked around desperately. She went to the window. There was a slippery pile of magazines on the floor. She stood on them, pushing aside the curtains. She looked out. There was nothing to see but the black night sky. She was prepared to jump, even though she was on the second floor; that was how badly she wanted to get away. She undid the latch, and tried to shove up the window. She grunted, straining, but she couldn't get it to budge. "Dammit!" she hissed. 

"I don't hear peeing," Buddy called. 

"I have a nervous disorder," Rory called back. "Please give me a second." 

"Quit fooling around," Buddy said. 

"You're making it worse!" Rory snapped. "Stop pressuring me!" She crouched and looked in the cabinet under the sink. She didn't know what she was looking for, but in the movies, people always found good stuff under the sink, stuff they made into weapons to defeat the bad guys. Maybe she'd find an aerosol can, and a cigarette lighter. Then she could make a blowtorch. She didn't find anything useful. There was some stuff under there, including a bag of disposable diapers, a box of super plus tampons, and a year's supply of hand soap. More magazines, these ones dirty. A yellow rubber ducky. A bottle of cough syrup. Briefly she considered wrapping her hand in a diaper, and punching out the window, before she discarded that plan as noisy and therefore impractical. 

"Get yourself a Band-Aid," Buddy called. 

"Where are they?" she said. 

"In the medicine cabinet," he said. "Where else?" 

She stood, and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She was alarmed. She looked like a different girl. Her eyes were red and puffy. She touched her sore cheek, wincing. She had dark circles under her eyes, and her hair was a tangled mess. The most troubling thing was her ripped shirt. Her bra strap was showing. She didn't like that one bit. She crossed her arms over her chest, and looked back at the locked door. She'd pretty much had enough of all this. She was ready for it to be over. 

She pulled open the medicine cabinet. She didn't care about the Band-Aid, but she didn't want to have another thing she had to debate with Buddy. She didn't want to have to talk to him anymore, and listen to his stupid ideas. She got a Band-Aid out of the box and put it on the counter by the sink. She was standing there, holding the little red and white box in her hand, when she saw it. A tiny, plastic rectangle. She didn't recognize it for what it was at first. Back home, it had just been her and her mom. She'd never lived with a man. She wasn't familiar with their things. It took her a second to realize that she was looking at a little pack of razor blades. 

She picked up the box, holding it between her thumb and forefinger. She was finding it hard to breathe, because she knew what she was looking at. A way out. Jess was dead. Buddy had just told her that. Nobody was going to rescue her. She couldn't get away from the Hartzke brothers, but maybe she could just get away. She felt gut-wrenching sadness. Mom! she thought. I'm so sorry. I don't want to do this. But I can't stay here. 

She slid a razor out of the box, careful not to cut her fingers. 

Buddy rattled the door. "Time's up," he said. "Get out here." 

"I'm almost finished," she said. 

"What are you doing?" he said suspiciously. 

"I'm almost finished," she repeated dully. 

"Get out here right now!" 

She wasn't going to have time. Hurriedly, she put the razors away. She had to find a place to hide this one blade, so she could keep it. She snatched up a magazine, and flipped through the pages. "Just a sec," she called. "Please!" She tore out a subscription card, and wrapped it around the blade. Standing on one foot, she pulled off her shoe, and pressed the lumpy little package down in the heel. She slid her food back into the shoe, and tied it very tightly. As long as they didn't make her take off her shoes, she could keep her secret. 

There was an angry thump, as Buddy hit the door with his fist. "Open this goddam door," he said. 

"Screw you," Rory mumbled indifferently. She turned back to the medicine cabinet. She plucked a box of Q-Tips off the shelf, and spilled them out into the toilet. She flushed. "Come on!" she whispered. She flushed again. 

"I'm coming in," Buddy said. 

"I'm coming out!" she shrieked. She flushed the toilet again. The water was rising and rising. It wasn't going down. It started to spill over the edge of the toilet. She opened the bathroom door. Downstairs, the phone rang. "Your toilet is broken," she said. 

"What?" he said. "Oh, man." He squeezed in past her. 

Rory backed away, down the hall. When she got to the stairs, she threw caution to the wind. She started to run. 

"Hey!" Buddy yelled. She could hear the floorboards creaking under his weight. She made it as far as the front door. She didn't even have time to get the door open. "I wish you hadn't done that," he said. 

"Please," she said. "I have to get out of here!" 

"You know," he said, "the back door was never locked. You should have tried." 

"I don't understand," she said. 

"Hey," he said. "Look at this." He was pointing at something. 

"What?" said Rory, confused. She turned her head, and looked where he was pointing. She never saw it coming.   


When she woke up, she was in a room she hadn't seen before. It was a bedroom. She was flat on her stomach on a rag rug, on the hardwood floor. She turned her head one way, and she could see under a nubby white bedspread. She turned her head the other way, and she could see a radiator. She hurt, all over. She groaned, and that was when she became aware of the fact that she was once again gagged. This time, it was a more impressive gag. There was a big wad of something in her mouth. A scarf or a handkerchief was tied over that, and knotted at the nape of her neck. She breathed shallowly through her nose, trying not to panic. She was tied up again, too. Her wrists were bound behind her back. Her ankles were tied together, and as she tested her bonds, she discovered that a rope ran from her wrists to her ankles. She couldn't straighten out her legs. It was very uncomfortable. Buddy had probably tied her up like this to pay her back for clogging up the toilet. 

Without any warning, she started to hyperventilate. She hadn't been aware that she was getting that upset. She had thought she was assessing her situation clinically, and was on top of her emotions. She'd been wrong. She started to struggle, thrashing uncontrollably. She couldn't stand to be tied up! She couldn't stand to be gagged! It was sick, grotesque and ugly, and she was really, really scared. 

All she was doing was exhausting herself. She couldn't get loose. For a while, she cried. She sniffed, and cried some more. She cried and sniffed, and sniffed and cried, and that occupied her for a while. She was trying to keep from smothering, but apart from that, she had given up. She was never going to get away from the Hartzke brothers. They were going to get to keep her. She got a cramp in the back of her thigh, and it hurt like hell. There was nothing she could do about it. She closed her eyes, her whole body aching. She lost track of how much time passed. She began to wish she would faint. She seriously considered smashing her head on the floor. In the end, she decided there was no point to it. Smashing her head on the floor wouldn't knock her out. It wouldn't work because she wanted it to work. Nothing she wanted to happen ever happened. 

Around her, the house was very still. Where had the brothers gone? If she remembered correctly, they'd been in the middle of some business crisis. She wondered what business crises hoods had. Maybe they had an appointment to have a rumble with a rival gang. She guessed that occasionally they had to steal stuff, so that they could sell it; maybe they were having a problem with that. Rory could hear white noise, the sounds a house made when everyone was gone. She could hear a clock ticking. She heard the refrigerator start. In a minute, Raggedy Andy would wake up and make his rounds. Nobody was guarding her, but she was still a prisoner. She couldn't get untied. Her nose itched, and she couldn't scratch. She fell asleep and for a little while, she was elsewhere.   


She woke up, dismayed to find herself in the same place she'd been the last time she'd checked. She couldn't bear it anymore! Her whole body hurt. The rope was chafing her wrists. Her mouth was dry, and whatever was jammed in there seemed to have gotten bigger. She was afraid it would fall in her throat and strangle her. She had to move. She gave a mighty heave, and suddenly she was on her side, staring under the bed. In this position, without the pressure of the floor against her stomach, she could wiggle more easily, even though doing it hurt a great deal. She could actually reach her ankles. Could she at least untie her feet? She scrabbled around with her fingers, trying to get a mental picture of what was going on down there. It seemed like there was a lot of rope; it was looped around her ankles several times. There were a lot of knots, too. Her hands weren't working all that well. They were half asleep, and she could hardly move them, because they were tied so tightly together. The other rope, the one between her wrists and her ankles, kept getting in her way. 

Rory heard a noise, and froze. Was that the front door? She didn't know what to do. Should she keep trying to untie herself? If the Hartzke brothers caught her trying to escape again, she didn't like to think what they might do. Suddenly, she was mentally somewhere she'd never been. She almost didn't recognize herself as Rory as she coldly thought: They are going to beat me and sexually assault me. They are going to do that if they catch me trying to run away, but they are also going to do it if I stay here like a limp noodle. 

Furiously, she worked at the knots. She wasn't making much progress. It was hard to tell the end of the rope from the beginning. Every movement was painful. She had a splitting headache, and she was having a hard time sucking in air. She heard the sound of someone on the stairs, and her stomach lurched. A door opened and closed. Another door opened and closed. She heard the floorboards creak. He was right outside her door. She was seeing spots. She shut her eyes. 

He came into the room, and she lost all the psychological ground she had gained a few minutes ago with her terse, utilitarian revelation. She was terrified. He walked right up to her. She could sense him. He was disturbing the air, taking up space. She moaned, trembling. Maybe she was getting paid back for all the bad things she had done in her life, but this was too much. She was just a girl! It was too harsh a punishment. She couldn't take it. Her heart was broken, her body was broken, and now her mind was breaking, too. 

He knelt beside her, and touched her shoulder. She flinched, whimpering. 

"Rory," he said. "Rory, it's me. I've come to take you out of here."   
  


~ * ~

To be continued . . .


	14. 14

14.   
  
Rory was frightened. She took rapid, shallow breaths through her nose, not really filling her lungs. She wasn't capable of understanding what she had just heard. She was so tired! She couldn't even lift her head. Her temple was pressed to the floor, her eyes tightly closed. She was trying to curl in on herself. It was a reflex, to protect her soft parts. The action drew tight the rope that ran from her wrists to her ankles, putting a horrible strain on her hands. Her heels bounced against her ass, and the binding on her wrists cinched tighter, cutting the circulation. There was the sharp, fiery pain of a rope burn. In the back of her thigh, she felt a twinge; the cramp was still there, lurking in the muscle, ready to come out and play with her. 

He was a dark presence. He touched her lightly with his fingertips and she tensed, clenching her fists. She had only one thought in her head, and it made no sense whatsoever. 

His teeth all point one way, towards the dark. 

He had come to do terrible things to her. She was completely helpless. There was nothing she could do but quiver and make pathetic mewling noises into her gag. 

"Oh, God!" He hauled on her hips. "What have they done to you?" He flipped her onto her belly. Startled, her eyes flew open. She wriggled fruitlessly, straining against the ropes. Huffing into the gag, she craned her neck, peering over her shoulder. Her eyes bulged. Jess? She didn't understand! She had seen him beaten and left for dead. After all this time, she had given up on him. 

It looked like Jess. It sounded like Jess. Distantly, a tiny ache of hope blossomed, like a scrawny weed pushing its way through a crack in the sidewalk. She wanted nothing more than to fall into his arms and beg him to save her. She hardened her heart. She wasn't certain she could trust the information provided by her senses. If he really was there, kneeling beside her on the rag rug, she was positive she couldn't trust him. Jess had handed her over to the Hartzke brothers for their obscene sport, as if she were nothing more than a plaything of which he had grown tired. 

He pawed at her, and his hand grazed her bottom. She felt a surge of anger, and started to struggle. "Easy, easy," he said, taking hold of the rope that ran from her wrists to her ankles. He gave it a tug. He was hurting her! Her head rocked back, and behind the gag, she made a sharp sound. In response, he said, "I know . . . I'm sorry!" 

Rory heard a small click. Jess began to saw on the rope. The rhythmic motion hurt her wrists. She thought they might be bleeding. Confused and exhausted, trapped in a small world of gloom and pain, she gave up resistance and rested her chin on the rug. 

The tension disappeared. Jess caught her feet before they hit the floor. "Jesus!" His voice was weak. "I think I'm gonna be sick." 

He pulled down her gag. Frustrated, Rory turned her head away. She tried to clear her mouth and couldn't, she was too dry. Blinking back furious tears, she said, "Mmm!" 

"Oh, jeez," he said, leaning over her. With his index finger, he hooked out the wad of cloth. Rory gasped, drawing in air. She saw that the thing that had been stuffed in her mouth was a scrunched up blue and white polka dot bandana. 

"I didn't know that was in there," he said. "I thought you couldn't breathe," he looked away, sighing harshly, "because of the way your legs were." With an expression of disgust, he lobbed the wadded up bandana over the bed. It was a piece of cloth. Rory didn't hear it fall. 

Experimentally, she flexed her arms. He hadn't yet cut free her wrists, nor her ankles, but she could straighten out her legs and that made a world of difference. She squirmed, and got herself on her hip. She rolled halfway over. 

He slid back, out of her way. "What are you doing?" he said. "I have to get your hands." She bent her knees so she could put the soles of her feet on the floor. She lifted her bum, and got wrists underneath. Now she was on her back, her shoulders flat to the floor. Her hips stuck out over the lump of her tied up hands. It wasn't comfortable, and her arms were pinned beneath her, but she had to look him in the eye. 

Jess was shaking. He had the knife in his hand, and the blade was twitching. For a guy who was supposed to be dead, he was pretty lively. Dispassionately, Rory wondered how the cut on his ribs was, and how he was managing to stay on his feet. The Hartzkes had really worked him over. The last time she had seen him, she'd been able to visually edit out the bruise on his cheek. Now, it was too dark, too prominent; it stood out in sharp contrast to the paleness of his skin. The cut under his eye--also a long ago gift from Maurice Emmell--didn't look bad, but there were other, newer cuts. There was a nasty gash on his forehead that had bled into his eyebrow, matting the hair. Rory thought that he'd probably need more stitches--in his forehead, and maybe on the inside of his lip. I'm not sewing any of that up, she thought. 

Assessing him, coming to the conclusion that he didn't look good, her gaze traveled down the familiar line of his lean body, catching on the gleaming blade he held in his hand. Rory was having a little trouble with the concept of the knife in general. She wished he'd put it away and forget about it. From out of nowhere, she had a disturbing thought. In her mind's eye, she saw an image of Jess taking the knife in both hands, like King Arthur with Excalibur, and driving it into her stomach. The image was like one frame buried in the middle of a film. 

Jess touched her bare shoulder. "Your sweater," he said, in a raspy voice. "I have it in the car." He pinched the bridge of his nose, covering his eyes. He swallowed, and Rory watched his Adam's apple jump. "I found it in the street." He blew out a breath. "Oh, God, Rory." 

Rory had an irritation in the corner of her mouth, a tiny cut. It was from the gag. She touched it with her tongue. She tried to work up some spit. She coughed, clearing her throat. When she could talk, this is what she said: "Who is Jenny?" 

He raised an eyebrow. "What?" 

"A birthday party?" she asked, her voice hoarse. 

"Rory," he said. "What are you talking about?" 

Her eyes filmed up, and she looked away. "They told me you were dead," she whispered. 

"They tell lies," Jess said. 

Rory took a long breath, looking down the length of her body, watching her breasts rise as she inhaled. She stared up at the plaster ceiling. She hadn't seen it before. Tied up on her little piece of the floor, she hadn't really seen the room at all. A stringy cobweb spun out from the light fixture. In the corner, there was a brownish watermark. 

"Rory?" Jess said. "Rory? They're liars. You can't trust anything they say." 

"Unlike certain other people," she said flatly, refusing to look at him. 

"Don't do this now," he said, sounding tired. "We don't have time." 

"You socialize with these people." 

"No," he said. "It's not like that." 

"They're your friends." She looked him in the eye. Shaking his head, he reached out to her. His fingertips hovered over her sore cheek. "Don't," she said thinly. "You're not allowed to touch me anymore." 

"Did they hurt you?" He sounded like he was choking. 

"Shut up," she said. She closed her eyes, thinking of Guy Hartzke, and the white-hot flash as he stuck her in the face. She heard Buddy proposing a bizarre deal--if she kissed him, he would give her information. Shuddering, she felt the phantom touch of Len Hartzke's hand, tilting up her chin. Meanly, she wondered how Jess would take it if she told him about Len's baby plan. She wondered if he still cared about her, even a little, or if that had all been a lie, too. 

"Rory," Jess said. Lost in her sad thoughts, she was drifting--like a mermaid in the murky cold of the ocean. Perhaps he recognized that. "Rory," he said. He touched her face, bringing her back. She opened her eyes. 

There was still a part of her that thought she might be able to hide deep in her head. If she buried herself well enough, no one could find her. If no one could find her, they couldn't hurt her anymore. Jess was a traitor. He had betrayed her. One way or another, she needed to escape from this harsh reality--but she didn't want his help. He was the one who had put her in this situation in the first place. "Get away from me," she hissed. 

"Jesus," he said. "I've got to get you out of here." 

"Don't touch me! I hate you!" 

"Rory," he said sternly. "I'm going to untie you now." 

"I was just going to untie myself," she said. "You go away!" She knew she was being ridiculous. She had tried to get free on her own, and hadn't been able. It was only that she felt ashamed and embarrassed and just plain stupid, balanced on her hands with her pelvic bone jutting. Her shirt was torn, and her face had been rubbed raw from her own tears. She drew up her knees, and that was when she realized her skirt was bunched up around her waist. "Oh, God," she moaned, and started to cry. 

"Rory," Jess said. "Please, let me help you. We have to get out of here." 

"Cover me up," she pleaded, feeling broken. "My underwear . . ." 

"Dammit," he said, and tried to turn her over, to get at her hands. "I just want to take you out of here." 

"Don't touch me!" she snapped, writhing. She flopped onto her side, and now she was facing him. "I guess this is going to be your wet dream for the rest of your life," she said. She was totally humiliated. "I'm all tied up like some movie bimbo, and you get to rescue me." 

"Stop that," he said sharply. He pulled her up, and the abrupt change in position made her head swim. She slumped against him. He slid an arm behind her back. 

"Did you even call the police?" she said miserably. She was pulling on her hands, even though she knew she couldn't get them apart. "Did you call anybody for help?" 

"Yes," he said. 

"Well?" 

"You have to keep it together, Rory." He pulled down her skirt. "There," he said. "Is that better?" 

"No," she said, biting back a sob. 

"Rory," he said, and she thought he sounded exasperated, "we don't have time!" 

Using her bound hands, she tried to scoot sideways, away from him. "I really was kidnaped," she said. "For real! I can't believe you didn't call for help!" 

He hauled her to his side. "I found your sweater," he said quietly, into her ear. He smoothed her hair. "After I woke up. I just stood there like an idiot, holding your sweater in my hands." He paused, swallowing. "I felt like my head was going to explode." 

"I feel really sorry for you," she said. "Please let go of me." 

"I got to a phone," he continued. "I called the cops and told them I had personal knowledge that the Hartzke brothers . . . " 

Rory waited, curled into him, with her arms behind her and her legs folded to the side. She could smell his blood, and his sweat. She knew now, that it was him. Inside her, she fell a stirring. It was a desire to let herself be taken care of by him. This was her man. This was the man who was supposed to be in love with her. She had thought she was in love with him, too. She had let him see her naked. She had let him touch her in the most intimate way. But he had hurt her terribly, and she wasn't sure there was anything he could do or say that would allow her to forgive him. 

Jess took a deep breath, and said, "I told them that the Hartzke brothers were gang raping an underage girl." His voice got rough. "The cops--they acted like it was Christmas. The problem was, I couldn't think. My head . . . I could only remember that they had the one house in Newark. I forgot all about this place." He was starting to sound like he wanted to cry, and Rory twisted so that she could see his face. He saw her looking. With his hand, he made her turn her face away. 

Rory stared at the night stand by the bed, her face stony. She listened to his story. "I sent the cops to the wrong house," he said. "I mean, I didn't know for sure that it was the wrong house. I was halfway there before I remembered this place, and then I thought they would have brought you here. So I took a chance, and turned around. Then--remember how we needed to get gas?" She nodded. 

"I got stranded," he said. "I had to hoof it to a service station." 

"Oh," she murmured, wriggling. She was uncomfortable, and her arms had fallen asleep. "I forgot to remind you." 

"I meant to come for you, Rory," he said plaintively. "I never meant to leave you alone with them. I didn't know they'd knock me out. I only had a split second to decide. I thought I could follow you, and get you back." He seemed to run out of steam, and stopped talking. 

"Wait a minute," she said, remembering. "Let go of me. You sold me." 

"Ah, shit," he said sharply. "That's not what happened." 

"I don't want you to touch me," she said. "And don't you look at me, either." 

"Listen to me," he said. "Listen. Be mad at me later. Cooperate with me now. We're getting the hell out of here." 

"You sold me," she said. "And I think I've gone insane." 

"I promise you that's not what happened." 

"Jess," she said. "Is this a dream?" 

"No," he said. 

"Am I hallucinating?" 

"What did they do?" he said sharply. "How badly are you hurt?" 

"Shut the fuck up," she said. 

He rested his head against hers. "Oh, Rory," he said sadly. 

"I'm very angry with you," she whispered. 

"I was always coming," he whispered back. "I'm sorry I took so long." 

"I don't believe you," she said bleakly. 

He took a deep breath. "I'm going to cut you lose, okay?" 

"Leave me alone!" she said. 

"Rory," he said. "You have to calm down." 

"Don't tell me what to do!" she said. "Who do you think you are?" 

"I'm the guy who's going to get you out of here!" he shot back. "Do you want me to leave you for the Hartzke brothers to play with?" 

"You're the one who gave me to them in the first place!" she shouted. Jess whipped his arm out from behind her, and she fell back against the bed. "Ooof!" she said. "What are you doing?" 

He got up into a crouch, and covered her mouth with his hand. "Shut up," he snapped. He looked over his shoulder. Rory breathed through her nose, quaking. She was scared--scared of Jess. She used bound wrists to prop herself up, and tried to shake off his hand. "Be still," he said, and behind his hand, she moaned. He got to his feet, leaving her on the floor. "Not one peep," he said, shaking a finger at her. "I mean it. Don't make me gag you again." 

She bent her head, a tear dripping down her nose. Oh, how she hated him! She made up her mind that the next time he covered her mouth--she was going to bite him. Hard. 

He went to stand in the doorway, his head cocked to the side. He looked like he was listening. "Did you hear something?" he asked, not looking at her. She didn't answer. He had told her not to talk. "Just a sec," he said, and left the room. 

She was shocked. "Jess?" she said tentatively. "Jess!" She could hear him on the stairs. Was he leaving? Had he taken her at her word? Was he going to abandon her again? I shouldn't have said that, she thought miserably. I'm so stupid! 

Dizzily, she leaned forward, almost touching her head to her knees. She was afraid, and mad at Jess, but she knew she was never going to get away on her own. She thought: What the hell is wrong with me? Why won't my brain work properly? Why can't I ever understand what's going on? 

Bent at the waist, looking down at her own legs, that was when she saw it. There was a Band Aid on her sore knee. Under her stocking. 

She shifted her legs so that she could see it better. Her stomach got very hollow. The hole in her stocking, from when she had fallen in the street, ran up and down. The Band Aid went from side to side. The stocking would have had to have been rolled down--or, she thought queasily, taken all the way off--for the Band Aid to have been applied. "No," she said aloud. "Oh, no. I didn't do that." 

She had a sad, strange moment where she started fade away. Her vision became cloudy, and she couldn't hear. She forgot to breathe. She was starting not to care about that anymore, about breathing. She was rudely awakened by an intense pain. When her eyes cleared, she saw Jess, kneeling beside her. He had a hand on the back of her neck, and he was squeezing. "Please," she gasped. "That hurts!" 

"I did know how else to wake you," he said. "Don't pass out, Rory. You have to keep your head above water." 

"What water?" she said stupidly. "There is no water." 

"Rory," he said. "Stay with me." 

"My leg," she said. 

"I'm untying you, now," he said. "Then you'll feel better." 

"No," she said. "That's not what I meant. I . . ." She shook herself. She was still mad at him, and even if she hadn't been, she certainly wasn't going to tell him that Buddy Hartzke had put a Band Aid on her knee while she was unconscious. "How long?" she asked him. 

"What?" he asked. 

"I don't think I know what's going on," she said. 

"I don't think you do either," he said. 

"I mean, how long has it been?" 

"What?" 

"Since you came. Since you left." 

"It's only been a few minutes, Rory," he said. "And I was only gone for a second." 

"Don't leave me," she said. "Please don't leave me here." 

"Oh, God," he said. 

"Rescue me now, Jess. Okay?" 

"Okay," he said. 

"I'll do anything you tell me to!" 

"You don't have to say that," he said. "But you have to stop fighting me, so I can help you. I"m going to take you away from here. We'll get you to a doctor, and she can, you know, do whatever you need. You don't have to report it, but she can at least write it down. Then, I'll drive you right to your front door, and deliver you to Lorelai." 

"Write what down? You're the one who needs a doctor," she said childishly. "Maybe I don't know what day it is anymore . . . " 

"Oh, Jesus," he moaned. 

" . . . but you've needed a doctor for, like, forever. And I'm not going home. I can't." 

"Okay," he said cautiously. 

"I could never go back there," she said definitely. "Not now. I don't want my mother to see me like this." 

"Rory," he said. 

"What if they followed me?" 

"What?" 

"What if they came to Stars Hollow? What if they were looking for me?" 

"That's not going to happen," he said. "They wouldn't know where to look." 

"What if they did something to my mom?" 

"Never mind that now," he said. "That's not going to happen." 

"How do you know?" she demanded, wanting reassurance. 

"Rory," he said, sighing. "Did you tell them you live in Stars Hollow?" 

"We didn't exactly chat," she said. 

"Were you tied up and gagged the whole time?" he asked, his jaw clenched. 

"Maybe," she said. She couldn't really remember. 

"Jesus," he said. "Did you tell them your last name?" 

"I don't think so," she said. 

"You're going to step back into your old life--your safe life," he said. "They'll never find you." 

"I'm not sure that will work," she said. "I'm not very safe anymore." 

"You will be," he said. "I promise I'll make sure you're safe." 

"You promise a lot of things," she said darkly. 

"I promise to make you safe," he repeated. 

"You don't understand," she said. "I'm the thing that's not safe. Bad things happen because of me." 

"Bad things happen because men are crazy," he said. "Maybe they look at you and they want you, or they even think they love you, but that doesn't have anything to do with you." 

"No," she said. "It's just me. That's why I have to go away. I have to keep going." 

"Honey, you're sick," he said. "You're not thinking clearly." He made a noise. "And you probably need a goddam CAT scan. We'll debate this later, okay? Okay?" He made her turn her head to look at him with a hand on her jaw. 

"Please," she said. "I . . . don't look at me. I'm so ugly." 

"Oh, Rory," he said, pulling her close. "I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen." 

"But it did," she said. "And nothing is going to change that."   


He crouched behind her, working on her hands. It hurt him to bend over, so he had helped her to kneel. She had her forehead pressed against the bed. "Ah!" she said. "That hurts!" 

"I have to cut it," he said, sounding grim. "There's five miles of rope back here." 

"I hurt," she said pitifully. "I hurt all over. Even my teeth hurt." 

She could feel his breath on the back of her neck. Finally, he said, "Rory, I need to focus. I have to get you out of here." 

"Yeah," she said sourly. "You're some big hero." 

"If you want to talk about what happened," he said carefully, "I would like to talk about that with you. But not right now, because hearing it will make me stupid." 

"Hearing what?" She gasped. "Ow, ow, ouch!" Over her shoulder, she said, "Are you having another one of your paranoid delusions?" 

"Stop it," he said, and his voice was harsh. "Don't lie to me. Not now." 

"I've never lied to you about anything," she said. "At least--I don't think I have." She wasn't sure what had gone on with Buddy Hartzke, so maybe she was telling Jess a lie. She reasoned that it was none of his business, anyway. "You're the one who tells lies. You make up lies, and you think lies in your own head." 

He ignored that, saying, "Who knew these guys were Scouts? This is the entire 'Boy Scout Handbook' back here. Horatio Hornblower couldn't tie knots like these." 

"Fine," she said. "Be that way. Ah!" 

"Yeah," he said, cursing. "You're bleeding." He worked in silence, while Rory took deep breaths and tried to send herself elsewhere so that she wouldn't have to be so aware of the pain. Of all the hurts, large and small, the abrasions on her wrists were the worst. Buddy had done a nasty, tricky tie-up job on her. The most she understood was that it involved coiling the rope many times around her wrists, and somehow weaving the ends underneath, for Jess had only tersely described the configuration as "fetishistic," and left it at that. The main problem was that he was that he couldn't work the knots. The cord was very fine, and in her struggles, Rory had pulled it tight. Jess was having to cut through the rope, one strand at a time, and although he had a good knife, the sawing process was painful and time-consuming. 

Rory was trying to hold her unpleasant thoughts at bay. She had taken refuge in sniping at Jess. She couldn't bear to think about how long she had been unconscious, and what else might have happened to her, while she was out of it and unable to defend herself. Would she even know if Buddy had touched her in a bad way? Or any of them? And where were the Hartzke brothers anyway? "Man," she said, her face on the bedspread. "This reeks of lavender." 

"Yeah," he agreed. "That's one of my top ten least favorite smells, too." 

"So," she said. "Let's talk about Jenny." 

"Let's not," he said. 

"Another old pal?" 

"I don't even know her," he snapped. 

"Jess," she said, turning. 

"Christ, Rory," he snapped. "I almost cut you!" 

She leaned on her hip, not really looking at him, focusing more on the collar of his jean jacket. "Jess," she said softly. "How exactly did you know about this house?" 

"Fine," he said angrily. "I came out here, once. One time. Okay?" He put a hand to his sore ribs. "One time--with my buddy Eddie Konapaskie." 

Rory bit her lip. "Your buddy Eddie Konapaskie?" 

"Jeez," he said. "That's not the important part of the story." 

"Was Bruno busy?" she asked snottily. 

"We were looking for a party," he said, glaring at her. "And that's the whole story. They had this bonfire-type thing in the woods, with a keg and shit. There was a tonne of people." He turned her around, and lifted her at the waist, so that she was half on the bed. He shoved her face-down on the mattress. 

"Ugh!" she said, into the lavender-smelling bedspread. "What are you doing back there?" 

"I'm trying to untie you without killing my stomach." There was a loosening of pressure, and suddenly, she could move her wrists. She could move them in little circles. 

"Hey," she said. "And, ow!" 

"Yeah," he said. "I'm making some progress.Why those sick fucks thought they needed to tie up one little girl is beyond me." 

"Just to be gross, I suppose," she said. She would have told him not to call her 'a little girl,' but she didn't have the energy. 

"They could have locked the door," he said. "They didn't have to tie you up." 

She turned her head so that she could see the bedroom door. She didn't remember Jess examining the door. How did he know it had a lock? Not all bedroom doors locked. "Uh," she said. "How--" 

"I mean," he interrupted, "they could have locked you in. Who do they think you are, Buffy the Vampire Slayer? It's not like you could break down the door. And the back door is open, too." 

"I know that," she said, feeling slightly sick. 

"Everything's open," he said. "I guess they think it's so isolated, out here . . . but still." 

Rory's brow furrowed. She had assumed that Buddy had tied her up to punish her. Far in the back of her head, an idea was forming, but she couldn't yet see it clearly. "I tried to run away," she said, distracted. "He was mad." 

"Which one?" 

"Buddy Hartzke," she said carefully, trying not to express any unusual emotion in her tone. She didn't want to tip Jess off . . . or, for that matter, to set him off. "I tried to trick him," she said lightly, as if she were merely relating an amusing anecdote. "I flooded the toilet, and when he went to look, I ran. But he caught me, and . . . " She broke off, shivering. She couldn't keep up the pretense. 

"What?" 

"Just get me out of here," she said in a low voice. "I have to get out of here." 

"That's the plan," he said. 

"Oh, Jess," she said. "You don't have a plan!" 

"I didn't have a lot of time to make one," he said stiffly. "But I never intended to leave you alone for so long. You have to believe me." 

"Whatever," she said. 

"It's the truth, Rory!" 

Rory was silent for a long moment. When she was able to speak, she said, "These men are animals, Jess." She took a shaky breath. "And you gave me to them. You just gave me away." 

"It wasn't like that, Rory." He seemed to be carefully choosing his words. "You didn't understand. You couldn't. You don't have it in you. You could never conceive . . . no matter what happens, you have to believe this--I did not give you away. I did not sell you. And I swear to you--I was never going to leave you." 

"How can I believe anything you say?" she said. "You party with these guys! They're your buddies!" 

"They're not!" he said explosively. "Look, Rory--I suck, okay? I'm an asshole. I've done shitty things in my life. There was a time when, guys like this, who did what they wanted, when they wanted--I thought they were cool. I wanted to be like them." 

"How could you want that?" she said, horrified. "Do you even know what they're like?" 

"Now, I do," he said. "But back then--my life was pretty bare. I wanted something . . . more. I didn't know what. I only knew I couldn't go through the soul-killing, mind-numbing, day-to-day crap everybody else puts up with. I wanted to be outside that." 

"I don't understand," she said, gasping as he tugged on her wrists. 

"You couldn't." He worked away at the rope. "You lead a meaningful life. Or you used to--until I stole you away from all that." 

"You wanted to be a criminal?" 

"I just wanted something more," he said. "I wanted something. Anything." 

"Anything," she said numbly. "Like . . . hijacking a girl and taping her mouth shut with duct tape?" 

"Jesus," he said, laying a hand flat on her back. 

"Don't touch me," she reminded him. 

"Sorry," he said miserably. 

"Jess," she said, "I don't know if I can get over being mad at you about this." 

"For what it's worth," he said. "I love you. I love you so much. No matter what." 

Rory laughed. There was no other appropriate response to such stupidity. "I'm not really worried about that," she said. "I'm not bothered by the idea that you might have trouble being in love with a girl if she was raped by three of your close, personal friends." 

"All three of them?" he said, his voice hollow. 

"None of them," she said. "They never got around to it." 

"I don't believe you," he said. 

"I don't care," she said 

"Rory," he said. "Don't play with my head. I'm dying inside." 

"Are you?" she asked. "That's interesting."   


Rory was uneasy. She had been alone for a long time, with the full weight of the house pressing down on her. She had felt the house breathe, and listened to it tick and sigh. When something changed, she sensed it, even though it was a very small change, as delicate and inconsequential as a butterfly flapping its wings in China. "Hold up," she whispered to Jess. She let herself slide down the side of the bed and sat back on her heels. 

"What?" he said. He was kneeling behind her. He put an arm around her waist, and she let him leave it there. "I'm almost done." 

"Hush," she said. 

"Then, I'll get your feet," he said. "I'll take you by the hand and we'll run like the wind." 

"Baby, be quiet," she said, only vaguely aware that she had just called him 'baby.' She was trying to make him do what she wanted. He had to shut up, so she could listen properly. She might be able to feel her way to the truth, if only she could figure out what the hell was going on. 

His hand was on her stomach, his fingers splayed. He was straddling her ankles, and she could feel him pressed up against her from behind. She was aware of it when he leaned into her neck, inhaling her scent. She ignored him, turning her head to the side. She was thinking. A scant few minutes ago, Jess had said: "Why those sick fucks thought they needed to tie up one little girl is beyond me." 

She was remembering a conversation between the Hartzke brothers, down in the livingroom, with the sound of the television low in the background. She had been taped up and leaning against the wall, sickly scared--almost too afraid to listen. Most of it was a blank, because they had been talking about terrible things and she had drifted out of herself and gone away. Somehow, she remembered the part about Jenny, and the birthday. Even though she had thought Jess was dead, she had been sort of jealous that he had maybe gone to Jenny's birthday. She had been tied up in the livingroom, but for some girls the Hartzke brothers threw parties! How did Jenny rate? Why was she so special? Whoever Jenny was, Rory kind of thought she hated her. 

There had been something else though, and at the time, she hadn't understood. She hadn't been able to think. It had been as if someone had taken a scalpel and surgically excised a segment of her brain, replacing it with a handful of styrofoam chips. 

"The house in Newark," Len had said. "It's crawling with cops." 

Guy Hartzke had said: "I wonder who we have to thank for that." 

And Buddy had said: "I didn't think he had the balls." 

Everything snapped into place. They knew. 

Rory felt like she had one foot extended over a dark, empty elevator shaft, and she was about to overbalance. She would fall unless she could grab something--but there was nothing to grab. 

They knew everything. She was sure of it. 

"Oh," she breathed, looking back at Jess out of the corner of her eye. "We've been so stupid." 

"What is it?" he asked. "Rory, what's the matter?" 

"They were very mad at you," she said. "I didn't understand. Jess! You did call the police!" 

"I told you I did," he said. 

"You have to go, now," she said. "Hurry!" 

"What? Rory!" 

"Get out of here," she said. "Run away!" 

"Not this again! I don't care how much you insult me. I'm not leaving." 

Rory started to struggle. She was trying to turn and look him in the eye. If she'd had the use of her hands, she would have taken his face and made him look at her. Clearly, Jess misunderstood. He wrapped his arms around her from behind. "Dammit," he said. He pressed her into the bed. "Don't fight!" 

"No!" Her voice was muffled in the bedspread. "Get off me!" 

"Rory!" he snapped. "Calm down!" 

"You have to get away," she moaned. "You have to get away now . . . so you can rescue me later!" 

He held her down. "Rory, what are you talking about? We're leaving together." 

She rolled her head from side to side, trying to squirm away from him. He wasn't listening! In a minute she was going to scream in frustration. She hitched her legs forwards, toward the bed. She thought that if she could get the toes of her saddle shoes on the floor, she might have some leverage. Her feet slipped out from under her, sliding back between Jess' legs. She couldn't do a thing with her ankles tied together. "Listen," she said, gasping. "It's a trap. They knew you would come. When you didn't send the police here . . . oh, God. You should have sent the police here! You only made them mad! They're waiting for you!" 

"Rory, no," he said. "I checked. There's no one here! You're sick and you're scared and you're jumping at shadows." 

She tried to buck him off and couldn't, he was too heavy. "You're a fool," she said, her voice breaking. "Now we'll never get away." 

"Fine," he said, sliding off her. He spun her around. She balanced unsteadily with her knees apart. Her shoulders were bent back, and she gripped her ankles with her hands. He got to his feet. "Come on." He hauled her up. She teetered, and almost went over. He caught her about the waist. 

"What are you doing?!" She was afraid that if she fell, she'd break something important. 

Jess bent a little, got her around the thighs. "Whoa!" she yelped, as he slung her over his shoulder. Straightening, he groaned. He lurched, taking a funny little sidestep. Everything shifted crazily, and Rory bit back a very girly scream. She was afraid he was going to drop her on her head. "You can't carry me!" she said. "You're much too small!" 

"I can carry you," he said stiffly. "You're smaller. Oh, man!" He made a sound. "Well, that ripped." 

"What?" said Rory, squirming. "What ripped?!" 

"Don't move," he said, turning slowly. 

"Can you do this?" She tried to hold up her head, and couldn't. She was just too tired. 

"I'm the Incredible Hulk," he said. "Have faith." 

"We're never going to make it!" she said. 

"Baby," he said, through clenched teeth, "We'd have been out of here ten minutes ago if you hadn't been fighting me so hard." 

"That's Ms. Gilmore to you," she snapped. "Or have you forgotten what you did?" 

"I can't talk and balance you," he said. "Not with my guts ripped out. Now, shut the hell up. I'm taking you out of here." 

"That's where you and I differ," said Len Hartzke. 

Jess stopped dead in his tracks, and Rory, who was facing in the opposite direction and couldn't see, froze. She was glad she didn't have anything much in her stomach. She might have puked down Jess' back. 

"Aw, shit," said Jess. 

"No," Rory moaned. "Please, no." 

"Hey, rockin' robin," she heard Len Hartzke say. "Tweet, tweet, tweet." 

"I guess you've been having some business trouble," Jess replied. 

"And now you're stealing from me," Len Hartzke said. "The pair on you." 

"I'm taking the girl," Jess said. "And I'm gonna walk out of here." 

"The girl is mine," Len Hartzke said. "And you're not going anywhere." 

Hanging upside down over Jess' shoulder, Rory was overwhelmed by despair. She had almost allowed herself to believe they were going to get away. Pointlessly, she worked her hands, opening and closing them. In this odd, new position, her tied up wrists and ankles tied hurt even more. 

They had come so close! She was all out of illusions. The cold, hard truth of the matter was that Jess was small--too small to protect her. Now he was captured too, and she was right back where she had started. Rory felt Jess' hand on her bottom, and she was about to protest, until she realized he was smoothing down her skirt so her panties wouldn't show. "I'm going to put the girl down," Jess said. "Then we can talk this out, like reasonable men." 

Len Hartzke laughed. "By all means, put her down. Tuck her up in bed. She can wait there for me, while I take you apart piece-by-piece." 

"Wait!" said Rory, horrified. "No!" She twisted, trying to see him. 

"Rory! Watch out!" Jess said. He turned away from Len, and let her drop to the floor. She landed with a thud, flat on her feet. Her knees almost buckled. Jess caught her up in a tight bear hug, and she gasped. Now, she was the one facing the door, and Jess was turned into the room. She could just see over his shoulder. Len Hartzke was leaning in the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest. He seemed quite amused. 

Jess hugged her tightly, reaching all the way around her back. Her body melted into his. She felt his lips move against her ear. She stiffened, her eyes wide. 

He hauled her to the bed. He got her rear on the edge of the mattress, heaved, and got her up on the bed. He let go. She fell back, again trapping her arms underneath. Her legs dangled. She kicked uselessly, feeling terribly frustrated. 

"Hold that position, sweetie," said Len Hartzke. "I'll be back for you." 

"Shut the fuck up," Jess said. "You don't talk to her. You don't even look at her!" 

"No," said Len. "You don't talk to her. You don't look at her. I can't believe you touched her. Who do you think you are?" 

"Okay," Jess said. He held up a finger. "I need some clarification, here. Are we fighting over the girl, or are we fighting over the other stuff?" 

"I've taken a shine to her," Len said. "Has she told you about all the fun we've been having?" 

"What?!" said Rory, struggling to sit up. She pulled up her legs, and dropped them, the heels of her saddle shoes catching on the bedspread. Her school skirt was tightly drawn across her flat tummy, and she could see the sharp protrusions of her hip bones through the plaid. Her heart was racing, and she was short of breath. I'm afraid, she thought. This is what it means to be afraid. But I can't get lost in my head again! I have to pay attention! 

"What fun?" said Jess dangerously. He looked from Len to Rory. 

Her mouth was dry. "He's lying!" she said. 

"I tasted her," Len Hartzke said. "She's very sweet. As sweet as . . . " 

Jess swung at him. Len sidestepped and caught Jess' arm, smacking him into the wall in a submission hold. "Arrgh!" screamed Jess, his face mashed against the wall paper. "You sick son of a bitch!" 

"Leave my mother out of this," said Len, twisting Jess' arm up behind his back. Jess groaned. 

"Stop it! Stop it!" Rory cried, squirming on the bed. She had thought she felt helpless before, but watching this was beyond belief. 

"You're a rapist!" Jess yelled. 

"Whoa, now," said Len, laughing. "She had a good time." 

"It's not true," Rory said. "Jess! It's not true!" Jess turned his head, and shot her an indecipherable look. "It's not true," she repeated weakly. She didn't even know if it was true or not. Don't think about it, she told herself. Don't think about it! 

Jess was breathing heavily, pinned to the wall. His face was getting red. He looked like he was about to pop a vein. 

"Jess?" Rory said uncertainly. 

"This is very romantic," said Buddy Hartzke, coming into the doorway. 

"Oh, no," Rory said, in a tiny voice. A strong wave of unpleasant sensation washed over her--chiefly, the sense that none of this was real. She became very hot. She was sure that she was sweating. Her hands and feet were numb. She wanted to swallow, but couldn't. No, she thought. This is what it means to be afraid. 

Jess was rolling his eyes wildly, trying to see what was going on. He could only turn his head so far, because of the way Len was holding him. 

"Don't touch me," Rory said to Buddy Hartzke. 

"Rory!" Jess said sharply. 

"Hey, baby doll," said Buddy, giving her a little wave. "How's your head?" 

"It hurts," she said distantly. 

"Don't talk to him," Jess snapped. "And don't you talk to her!" He yelled this at Buddy, whom he couldn't even see from his position. 

"Wow," Buddy said. "He, like, totally has no fucking clue which end is up, huh?" 

"Yeah," said Len. "Where's Guy? I want the two of you to take him out of here, so I can have a little talk with my sweetie pie." 

Buddy snapped his fingers. "Oh, yeah," he said. "I forgot to tell you. He went for a walk." 

"He went for a walk?" Len said, sounding incredulous. 

Buddy shrugged. "I told him not to." 

"See what I have to put up with?" Len said to Rory. 

"Stop talking to her!" Jess yelled. 

"You're very funny," Len said to Jess. "I'm going to have a big talk with her." 

"No!" said Jess. 

"No," said Rory. "Uh-uh. No way." 

"It won't hurt," Len told her. "I just want to show her something." 

Rory moaned. 

"Wait," said Jess. "No!" 

"A picture is worth a thousand words," Len said. 

"Don't fuck with her head," Jess said. "I'm the one you want." 

"Why is her shirt all ripped?" Len said to Buddy. "Did you do that?" 

"She did it to herself," Buddy lied. "She was in mourning for her dead boyfriend." 

"I thought you were Catholic," Len said Rory. 

"Pardon?" Rory said. 

"I'm not going to hold it against you," he said hastily. "I've been thinking of taking a Krav Maga class down at the Y." 

"Oh, God," said Jess. 

"What?" said Rory. 

"Will you please stop talking to him?" Jess said to Rory. 

"Time for you to go," Len said to Jess. 

Buddy grabbed Jess by the collar. "I can handle him," he said. "Come on, shorty. By the way--you look like shit." 

"Let go of me!" Jess said, struggling. 

"Hey, Len," Buddy said, easily getting Jess into a full nelson. "This means your baby's gonna be Jewish." 

"What baby?" said Jess, his voice strained. Buddy had laced his big hands together, and was pressing down on the back of Jess' neck. He looked at Rory over Jess' head and winked. 

"Oh," said Rory. "Please don't do that!" 

"You want to stop fighting me." Buddy was talking to Jess, but still looking at Rory. "I could snap your neck like that!" 

"Oh," Rory moaned. "Please don't do that either!" 

"What baby?!" yelled Jess, his face red. 

"Take a hike," said Len. 

"Rory!" Jess screamed. Buddy dragged him to the door. 

"Please," said Rory. "Oh, God . . . please!" 

"Rory!" Jess screamed. "What baby?" Buddy pulled him into the hallway. 

Jess was gone, and she was alone with Len Hartzke.   


Len sat on the bed beside her, leaning back on his elbow. He was bigger than she was, and his weight made an indentation in the mattress. Rory slid into him, a little. She shifted uncomfortably on top of her wrists, because her thigh was touching his hip, and she didn't like it. Her wrists were hurting her--a lot. They had hurt before, but now they hurt because of what Jess had done to her just before Buddy Hartzke had dragged him away. She told herself to be still, regardless of the discomfort. 

Len played with a button on her shirt. He looked like he wanted to tell her something. Whatever it was, she didn't want to hear it; she hated that she had to talk to him. It was almost as if he had some sick, crazy idea that they were in a relationship together, rather than captor and prisoner. "How . . . " She took a breath. "How did you sneak up on us?" she asked. "The floor creaks." 

He shrugged. "It's my house. I know which floorboards creak." 

"Oh," she said. 

"He's not too bright," he said. 

"Who?" she asked, thinking: Buddy. 

"Your little friend," he said. "But you're done with him now." 

"Oh," she said. "Okay." 

"Pretty soon, he'll be gone, and you won't have to worry about him." 

"I see," she said. 

"I'm fine with the whole religion thing," he told her. "I'm very open that way." 

"Well," she said. "It's good that you're flexible." 

"Oh, yeah," he said. "I'll make things nice for you. I can tell you're a high-tone chick. I like that. But you have to take care of yourself. You get fat, and you're out." 

"Got it," she said. "I'll watch what I eat." 

"Good," he said. "And don't be sulking all over the place. If I get irritated with you, I'm just going to give you to Guy." 

Rory looked up at the ceiling, and watched the cobweb eddy on a current of air. She was willing herself not to break down and cry in front of Len. Some instinct was telling her she had to humor him. "What about Buddy?" she asked, as lightly as she could. What she really wanted to know was whether or not Buddy was allowed to touch her. 

"Do you like Buddy?" he said. 

"Not especially," she replied. 

"If you're a bad girl, I might give you to Buddy . . . for a while. Until you learn your lesson. If I end up giving you to Guy, I won't want you back." 

She thought she might disappear then. She could feel it starting to happen. She became thin and ghost-like. Not present. She missed the next few things Len said. She simply couldn't track. What brought her back was a horrible shock. Len was holding a Polaroid photo in front of her nose. The picture was so close to her face it was making her cross-eyed, but that didn't matter. She could see it well enough. 

"So you see," Len was saying, as he tucked away the picture. "He's not such a great guy. I don't want you crying into your pillow over him. That would get on my nerves." 

"Wait," Rory said, reeling. "What . . . what is that?" 

"That's your boyfriend," he said. "The guy who sold you to me." 

"But . . ." She almost couldn't form the words because her teeth were chattering. "The girl," she said, "her face is turned away from the camera." 

He smiled. "She has brown hair," he said. "Just like you." 

"No," said Rory, shaking her head. Tears were starting to leak out of her eyes and drip down the sides of her face, into her hair. 

"I thought you'd like to see it," Len said. "To see what kind of guy he really is." 

Rory was cold. She was so very cold. 

"I got some stuff to take care of," he said. He leaned in and kissed her on the lips. She was wooden, non responsive. He squinted. "You'll want to work on that," he said. "Remember what I said about sulking." He got to his feet. "See you soon. Don't go anywhere."   


As soon as Len left, she started to struggle. She heaved her legs up onto the bed. Using her heels and her hands, she shoved herself into the center of the bed. She rolled over on her side. She drew up her knees, and started working down her arms. She had to get her wrists past her butt. Hopefully, she could pull her feet through the circle of her arms, and get her hands in front of her. "Oh! Oh!" she moaned, as she squirmed. "That hurts!" 

Before he'd been taken away, Jess had hugged her tight, crushing her to his chest. He had whispered in her ear. Two words. "Be smart," he'd said, his voice so low, she almost didn't catch it. She wasn't sure what he'd meant, but she thought he had been telling her that if she got the chance, she was to leave without him. She didn't know if she could do that. Len had just shown her something very ugly, and she didn't know what it meant. He had done it to hurt her, and make her not care about Jess. Maybe Len thought that if she fell out love with Jess, she would automatically fall in love with him. Whatever the photo meant(and she was trying not to think about it, because it was that bad) she wouldn't leave anybody to the tender mercies of the Hartzke brothers. Even if she hated him. 

She gave a great tug, and suddenly her arms were past her rear end. She was lucky Jess had cut away as much rope as he had; otherwise, she would never have been able to do this. Now her arms were hugging her thighs. That was when the back of her thigh cramped up. She was bent in two, like a pretzel. She couldn't breathe at all! Her whole body was shaking, her wrists were burning, and the pain--she could never have imagined such pain. She lay on her side, rocking. There was a ringing in her ears. At some point she must have found a way to breathe, because she started to sob. She didn't black out, but for a long time she was lost. She didn't know where she was, or what she was doing. She knew only that she was in distress--tumbling in crashing waves of agony. 

Little by little, her vision cleared. Dazed, she picked up her head, and looked around. She was trying to remember what was going on. She was untying herself, she remembered finally. She'd had a break--had she taken a nap?--but now it was time to get a move on. Tentatively, she pulled her knees up even further--as far as they would go. She got her hands down to her ankles, and with a great deal of straining, pulled her feet free. She held up her hands. It had been so long since she'd seen them! She could have cried, just to know that they were still there, but if she started to cry now--she might never stop. 

Her chest was heaving, and she was out of breath, but she couldn't rest. She was sort of afraid she might fall asleep. She was so tired, and she just wanted to be gone--one way or another. She brought her hands up to her face. She stuck out her tongue, and used it to poke in the small space between her wrists. She tasted blood. And metal. She pushed the knife out from its hiding spot, and slid it into her hand. 

There was a scary moment when she thought she might not be able to get it open, but she did. Manipulating it carefully, she stuck the hilt between her knees, clamping her legs tightly together. She rubbed her wrists on the blade. Nothing happened. She saw that she had the knife backwards. Groaning in frustration, she turned it around, and started over. The muscles in her arms were aching, and she had a sharp pain in the small of her back. She rubbed up and down like she was lost in the forest and trying to start a fire. Her wrists burned, but she was deferring that pain to a later date. She couldn't allow herself to think about it, or to even feel it really. She had to keep going. 

One thin strand peeled away. Another frayed and broke. She jumped, looking at the door, breathing hard. She thought she had seen someone out of the corner of her eye. There was no one there. "This is taking too long!" she said, unaware she had said it aloud. 

She brought her hands up to her mouth, and sank her teeth into the rope. There was a terrible pain as she pulled madly. She got her left hand free. Her jaw dropped. She hadn't really believed she could do it--that she could ever get free. She clawed at the rope that hung loosely around her right wrist, and slid it off. Gagging, she threw it at the wall. She started to shake, but with a supreme effort of will, pulled herself together. She wished she could kill Buddy Hartzke. She wanted to kill them all. 

Groaning, she slid to the floor, and started on her ankles. She was drained. She saw it in the way her hands shook and seemed to twitch of their own accord. Her head was pounding, and when she brushed her mouth with the back of her hand, she discovered that her lips were cracked. She cast her eyes skyward, and focused on the brown watermark on the ceiling. She thought that if anyone were to see her, they would think her demented. Maybe she was. Sitting in a heap on the floor, with her messy hair, a run in her stockings, her face bruised and tear stained, she was like an insane beggar girl--although, rather than begging for someone to give her something, she was begging for something not to happen. She didn't want to be raped, and there was no way in hell she was having a baby for Len Hartzke. She didn't know where Jess was, but she knew he was in serious trouble. She was going to rescue herself--and then she was going to rescue him. Her eyes affixed to the brown stain on the ceiling, she sent out a prayer. As she sawed on the ropes binding her ankles, she prayed for God to notice her in her predicament and immediately download some Matrix-style kung fu into her brain.   
  
  


~ * ~

To be continued . . .


	15. 15

15. 

Rory lay in the garden, biting her hand to keep from screaming. A strange man was watering the tomatoes. She'd heard him tell his companion to wait. She'd heard the fallen leaves crunching under his feet. There had been the unmistakable sound of a zipper unzipping. He was so close! Aside from the thin strap of her bra, Rory's back was bare. She was sure that in the darkness, her pale skin was luminous. She couldn't believe he hadn't noticed her. 

Just a few minutes ago, she had been standing with her naked back pressed flat to the house. She'd been panting, gulping the crisp night air. Light and music spilled from every window. The bass was so loud, it was distorted; Rory had been able to feel the siding buzz behind her shoulder blades. She had hardly dared to believe she was finally free. It had been very hard, and she'd gotten a little injured in the process, but with a great deal of perseverance she had climbed out the basement window. She had even managed to formulate a plan. Scurry behind the shed. Use the shed as cover, and make a break for the woods. Run. Run some more. Basically, never stop running. So far, she had made it only as far as the garden. She'd seen the headlights and dropped into a low crouch among the tomato plants. A car had pulled up to the house, and a man and woman had gotten out. Inexplicably, the Hartzke brothers were having people over. More on that, later.   
  
Now Rory was curled around a tomato stake. The ground was cold. Her stomach, exposed over the waistband of her school skirt, was very sore. When she had crawled through the basement window, she'd gotten stuck. She hadn't been able to hoist herself the way a man might. She'd had to get her bum on the ledge. The window had fallen, banging down on her stomach. She'd had time to think, _This is it!_ She'd been sure the window was going to shatter, cutting her to ribbons. The way her luck was going lately, she wouldn't have been surprised.   
  
Before she had scrambled up the wall and out the window, she had turned, her eyes smarting. "I'm sorry," she had said. "I'm so, so sorry. I don't want to leave you! I promise I'll find a way to get you out of here." She made that solemn declaration, and she left. 

"I just wrote a song," the man called out, turning to look over his shoulder. Rory flinched in sick anticipation, but didn't get splashed. "I thought it up this very minute." 

"Oh, yeah?" There was something in the tone of his girlfriend's voice that indicated she had listened to a lot of his songs. Rory had overheard them talking when they got out of the car. The girl seemed nice enough, and Rory was set to wondering. What was she doing here? She sounded like a normal person. Why was she in the company of hard men like these? Rory would have liked to ask her that, but she wasn't willing to reveal herself. She no longer had reason to believe that anyone voluntarily in the company of the Hartzkes or any of their associates would be a friend to her. Rory was quite certain that if she were to be discovered by either the peeing man or his lady, she would be immediately returned to the custody of the Hartzke brothers.   
  
The girl sighed, asking, "How does it go?" 

"Bear with me," the man said. "Some stuff I still got to flesh out." He took a breath, and in a nasal voice, proceeded to sing, "Oh, I don't know yer last name . . . what you look like in the light . . ." 

"That's sweet," said the girl. "Real romantic." 

Yeah, that's real romantic, thought Rory. 

"Hold on, there's more," said the guy. "This is the chorus." Rory heard him clear his throat. "I'm a dog, dog, baby, I'm a _big_ dog, baby, I'm your dog, dog, baby . . ." 

"You might need one more word," said the girl. 

"What?" 

"I said that's beautiful, honey. That's a hit single." 

"I know!" He sounded delighted. "And I just thought it up!" 

Finish peeing already, Rory thought irritably. Go and join the party. 

Approximately sixteen hours earlier, Rory stood on a warped floorboard in the slanting sunlight of the upstairs hallway. She held Jess's knife alongside her thigh, half concealed in the folds of her skirt. She was wondering how much time had passed since Buddy Hartzke had dragged Jess away. An entire civilization could very well have been built and collapsed in upon itself in the time it had taken her to get from the bedroom to the hallway. Jess. She had no idea where he was. God only knew what they were doing to him. Rory rubbed her eyes. What was that quote from Gibbon? 

"The fabric of a mighty state, which has been reared by the labours of successive ages, could not be overturned by the misfortune of a single day."   
  
Isn't it lucky I read _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_? she thought. That's _so_ comforting. 

Rory was having trouble focusing on the task at hand. She was in rough shape--grim, pale, and more than a little sore. Due to lack of sleep, her eyes were gluey, and she was somewhat sick to her stomach. The hall was over warm, and the light from the back window was filled with particles of dust. She yawned. She needed to decide what to do next. The dancing dust motes were distracting to her; they were like microscopic tears in the fabric of reality. In her indecision, if she looked at them too long, she might become obsessed. She might develop trouble seeing the big picture, and get stuck on things that were very small and dangerous. She could end up seeing all the way through to the flip side of reality. Even in her present state, Rory recognized that as something no young girl should see. 

Rory was trying very hard not to notice her sore wrists. She found it was necessary to pretend that she had never been tied up. That none of that had happened. She was about five seconds away from a major case of the screaming meemies, and it would have been a relief to allow her shoulders to convulse in a precursor to mindless sobbing. She could easily melt into a puddle on the hardwood floor, and then she wouldn't have to play at being an amazon. Cruel, capricious men had trussed her up like a Thanksgiving turkey. They had decided she was staying put, whether she wanted to or not. Rory found that to be terribly disturbing, almost more so than the physical act of tying her up. She had been a free, autonomous person, until the Hartzke brothers had arbitrarily decided that she wasn't. The very idea was offensive. She wasn't a bartered bride. She was a straight-A student! She was supposed to be going to Harvard!   
  
She wanted to know what time it was, but she couldn't look at wrist watch. She couldn't bring herself to look at her wrists. In her heart of hearts she knew they had been rubbed raw. Her hands were numb; they felt clumsy and stupid. Is there permanent damage? she wondered bleakly. Don't look, said her internal censor, snatching the thought away. Her internal censor had been doing a lot of that lately. The traumatic mistreatment of her hands was shelved alongside issues pertaining to photographic evidence, and . . . Band-Aids? What? Don't look, said her internal censor, and that was snatched away, too. 

Like many intelligent people, Rory lived in her head. Were there idiomatic errors in her edition of _Dead Souls_? Was Ayn Rand obsessed with triadic synthesis? Busy with her deep thoughts, it was easy for her to miss out on the subtleties of human interaction. Yesterday--was it only yesterday?--Jess had made the comment that for a smart girl, she could be really stupid. She distinctly remembered him saying that, despite the fact that more and more she was feeling as though she were encased in the cocoon of a horrifying nightmare. In a small way, she was clinging to that possibility, the belief that despite the shocking realness of it all, none of it was true. Rory did recognize that even on her worst day--with her groaning stomach full of junk food, and after a marathon of inappropriate movies, all of them chock full of disturbing imagery--it was unlikely that her subconscious could fabricate the creepy idiocy of recent events. But a girl could hope, right? A girl could hope that she was crazy . . . even though it was a bad, scary day when the prospect of being crazy was more comforting than the alternative. 

Upstairs, all alone in the eerie quiet, Rory began to be consumed with a strong suspicion that a whole lot more had been going on between Jess and the Hartzkes than she had understood. It was like a blot of blood, a dark blossom blooming at the back of her brain. Mercifully, her internal censor snatched that thought away--and quickly, too. Very quickly. She had to find Jess, rescue him, and get away from the Hartzke brothers. If she couldn't count on Jess, and he couldn't count on her, the two of them didn't have a chance. 

The room in which Rory had been held prisoner was at the far end of the upstairs hall, toward the back of the house. In addition to the bathroom, there were three other rooms. All the doors were closed. Jess could be behind any of those doors, she reasoned; perhaps he was tied up in the way she had been. The problem was that anybody could be in those rooms. For all she knew, those were the Hartzke brothers' bedrooms. Like Rory, the Hartzkes had been up all night. The house was heavy with silence; it was entirely possible that the brothers were catching an early morning snooze. Maybe Buddy was flat on his back and snoring. She could imagine Guy curled up like a snake, or a ball of barbed wire. But Len . . . he would be awake. He would be sitting up in bed, leaning against the headboard. It was within the realm of possibility he'd be reading a book. She would open the door. Len would see her and get angry. Or, he would look up at her and smile, thinking she had sought him out. Rory swallowed, feeling queasy. What do I do? she thought, standing on Jell-O legs in the buttery light of the hallway. She could feel the uneven floor through the soles of her saddle shoes. What do I do, now? 

Maybe you're not really here, she thought shakily. Maybe none of this is real. So don't worry about it. Just do _something_. It doesn't matter what. 

Rory took a breath, and it caught midway down her throat. She nearly coughed. Alarmed, she slapped a hand over her mouth. Her bruised and bloody wrist was now right in front of her eyes, so that was it for pretending. They tied me up! she thought. She bent her head, screwing her eyes shut. Oh--_why did they have to do that?!_

Rory tried to breathe again, this time carefully sucking in the air. She set her shoulders. This is no way to run a rescue, she thought. Knife in hand, she decided to check behind each door for her imaginary boyfriend. 

Door number one was across the hall from the door to her room. Like all the doors, it was solid and slightly glossy, with a skeleton keyhole in the plate beneath the doorknob. On the wall beside it there were old family photographs. There was an oval, sepia tinted portrait of a Gibson girl with a wasp waist, her hair piled high on her head. She was prettily posed with her chin resting in her hand. There was a faded, greenish shot of a blond boy in uniform, from WWII. Different shot, same boy, this time caught in the act of walking down a busy city street, with a cheerful girl on his arm. There was a stark black and white picture of two men in tweed, sitting stiffly on a garden wall. They were holding hunting rifles. One of the men was wearing a cap, and had a handlebar mustache. The other man's face was blurry. He hadn't been able to sit still long enough to have his picture taken. Rory wondered if he was the Hartzke brothers' grandfather, because he was fidgety and insane-looking. It was strange to think of them as having ancestors. 

Beneath the photos, there was a demi lune table, and on it, set upon a crocheted doily, a vase of dried and crumbling flowers. Beside the vase, there was a snapshot in a clear plastic frame. Rory swallowed, licking her lips in fastidious distaste. The picture had a scalloped border, and if she had squinted, she might have been able to read the date stamp. It was a photograph of three little boys in footie pajamas, sitting under a Christmas tree. They were surrounded by a shiny pile of presents. Two of them had white blond hair. They had their arms flung around each other's necks, and were grinning crazily, like the scary clown mural back in Asbury Park. Behind them, slightly out of focus, was a sullen, pouting boy. Rory was unsurprised to see that Buddy Hartzke had been fat, when he was little. 

Walking as carefully as Paul had walked the shifting sand in _Dune_, she crossed the hall. Unlike Len Hartzke, she didn't know which floorboards creaked, and she didn't want to make any noise. With a tremulous hand, she reached for the antique doorknob. She gave it a weak twist, and was rewarded with a tiny click. On its own, the door swung back slowly. Rory watched it, stupidly. At the last second, she gasped. Heedless of the creaky floor, she took a quick step forward and grabbed the edge of the door before it could bang into the wall. Trembling, she bit her lip. Tilting her head to the side, she tried to listen. There were no far off footfalls, no angry exclamations. 

Rory was in the doorway to a dark, empty bedroom, permeated with a strong man smell--cologne, sweat, dirty socks. The window blind was drawn. There was a poster of Michael Ballack thumb tacked to the wall. At the foot of the bed, the sheets were a messy tangle, and looking at them, her stomach twisted. Someone had messed up the bed. Her face got hot, and her head felt very big and light. Reluctantly, she took a small step forward. It was as if she were being pulled, like someone invisible had wound a hand in her skirt, tugging, dragging her in deeper. Rory started to feel anxious. The room was . . . familiar. If someone were to take a picture from where she was standing, and a guy--say some random guy--was sitting at the foot of the bed, his face would be very clear. It would be easy to tell who he was. If, in that same picture, there was a girl, she might be less distinct, because she might be on her stomach, under the covers, with her face turned away from the camera. Rory's heart sped up. Her throat got tight. Even in broad daylight, the shadows seemed to draw together, swirling. Rory closed her eyes, remembering. The girl had been so limp. She could have been unconscious. 

Hastily, Rory turned away, stifling a yelp of surprise when she saw movement. It was only her own reflection in the mirror above the dresser. 

It all came crashing in on her.   


  
"She has brown hair," Len Hartzke had said of the girl in the Polaroid photo, smiling with ice in his eyes. "Just like you." 

What had he been trying to insinuate? Was it only that he was mean and crazy? Jess had told her that the Hartzkes told lies--but so did he. He lied all the time. There was a history there, between Jess and these men, and Jess hadn't been very forthcoming. Rory didn't know what to think. She had promised herself she was going to find Jess, and take him out of this terrible place. But . . . what if Jess was playing her? What if he'd been playing her all along? 

For the first time she let herself examine what Len Hartzke had shown her. The Polaroid photo. She'd only seen it for an instant. Someone had snapped the picture from the doorway, looking into this very room. Jess had been in the forefront, looking up at the camera. His expression had been difficult to categorize, but animated in a manner she'd found extremely disconcerting. Rory moaned, her head spinning. In the background, under the chenille bedspread, there had been the suggestion of another person--a delicate white shoulder, a dark mass of hair. 

She was starting to get really confused, now. She was so hot! Her brain was practically melting. Her thoughts were coming fast and furious, each new one hard on the heels of the last. The picture could have been taken last night. Sickly, she realized that she had a long stretch of time that was unaccounted for. At some point, someone had undressed her--maybe a little, maybe a lot--and dressed her back up again. Whoever had done it had put a Band-Aid on her sore knee. She had thought it had been Buddy Hartzke, but . . . what if it had been someone else? A tear dripped down the side of her nose. She wiped it away. 

Jess sold her to the Hartzke brothers. There was no way to pretty that up. A guy who would sell his girlfriend was capable of anything. If Jess had a way to make things right between her and him, why wouldn't he just spit it out? "You didn't understand . . . you could never conceive . . ." Baloney. She could conceive of plenty of things; for instance, while Jess had grudgingly admitted he'd been here once before, there was no proof the Polaroid photo had been taken at some long ago keg party. 

Shaking, Rory wanted to vomit. What had happened? What had happened to her? She needed to know! After all his big talk--all the terrible talk of rape--would Jess do something like that? Feeling lost and very frightened, she began to believe that he had. Nothing that had happened during night had made sense. That was because it was a sick, elaborate game. Jess was in league with the Hartzke brothers! He had used her--while she was unconscious! He had let them take pictures! He wasn't captured. Probably, he was sitting with them in the living room, waiting for her to come down--because of course they knew she was up here mousing around like a terrified, silly girl. When she did go down, when she finally got up the guts to do that, they'd show her more pictures, and they would laugh. They'd grab her and tie her up some more, and they'd all do terrible things to her until she was completely insane. 

Underfoot, the floor was moving. She was about to lose her balance. She grabbed the edge of the dresser with her free hand. She was the stupidest girl in the world, to think she had to rescue Jess. He probably liked it here. She shuddered, gagging, and suddenly hot tears were burning her cheeks. She began to sob hopelessly. She couldn't reign herself in. Her body went haywire. Her stomach was rolling, and she was shivering--but she was too hot. Of course she had been raped. Jess was the one who had done it to her. She'd seen the picture. What other explanation could there be? 

She lost it. Afterwards, Rory would think about that, and be troubled. She never could remember exactly what happened, or anything she did. She had her dark insight, and poof! She was gone. With a great deal of fear--the sort of fear a person who misses their flight feels, when they find out the plane went ahead and crashed without them--she would remember that she'd had a knife in her possession. A knife she might have used on herself. 

The next thing she knew, she was kneeling on the floor, looking out the window, with her arms folded on the window sill. She could see the driveway and the tomato garden. Behind that there was a shed, and further, the woods. In a haze, Rory put her hand on the glass and was startled to see that she left a hand print. She started to wake up a bit. The fact that she could leave a hand print on the window told her she was real. She got to her feet. She stood by the window, her brow wrinkled in confusion. She couldn't remember what she was supposed to be doing. She wondered what she'd done with her knife. She couldn't see it anywhere, and she really wanted it back. She looked around the room, and finally saw it, over on the dresser. She wandered over. She had completely lost her sense of urgency. Nothing mattered. She got lost again, but only slightly, and then she was looking down at the surface of the dresser. Incuriously, she examined the items thereon. She was just killing time. A Speed Stick. A silver Sinn wrist watch. A ticket stub for the movies. A handful of coins, mostly pennies. A wad of bills, tucked under the edge of a bible. The outside bill was a worn twenty. She could see that. The rest--it was a big wad. She let out a long breath and her eyes got a little glassy. 

The whole reason she was caught up in this mess was money. She and Jess had needed money to run away. To live. Rory looked at the folded bills, and felt very strongly that she wanted to steal the money. If she did, it would be the first time that she personally had stolen something. She had been party to stealing. She had made use of stolen things. But she had never taken anything herself. "I don't care," she said. She was trying to sound defiant, but the words rang hollowly in her ears. She shifted from one foot to the other, thinking. If she took it, she would have her own money. She could even keep it a secret from Jess. "Screw you, Hartzke brothers," she said, with slightly more force. "I'm stealing your money." 

She had to find a place to hide the cash. With her shirt ripped, her bra was out. She put the knife between her teeth, like a pirate. She pulled up her skirt, pinning it out of the way with her elbow. She rolled the bills into a tube. She took all that money, and she tucked it under the tight elastic of her stocking top. Glancing up at the mirror, she froze. She was still holding her skirt, and in the reflection, she could see the slash of her cream-colored panties nestled between her legs. The panties Jess had picked out in the lingerie section of the ladies' store, with the saleswoman breathing down his neck. 

Rory looked at her panties in the mirror, and her eyes narrowed. When she had gotten dressed back at the motel, Jess had been stretched out in the bed. He'd been reading, or pretending to--at the time she'd felt that he was watching her. He had just done something to her, something private and tender. He'd been waiting for her reaction. He had been very tentative. How could she believe someone who had treated her so delicately would ever want to hurt her? Rory was dribbling a little around the knife. She took it out of her mouth, and let out a hard breath, not sure whether to laugh or to cry. Len Hartzke was a sick bastard, a pervert and a psycho. He had fucked with her head--and she had fallen for it. 

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Back at the motel, she had stepped into her brand-new panties one leg at a time, just like it had been any other day. She had preened a little in front of the mirror, for Jess's benefit. Rory smiled to herself, remembering. She had enjoyed making him want her. 

"I really am the stupidest girl in the world," she said softly, looking at her underwear. She let her skirt fall back around her thighs. Maybe there was an easy way to tell what had happened to her, and what hadn't. She folded the knife shut, and tucked it away in her bra. She breathed in, held it, and let it out, trying to make herself be calm. When she felt sufficiently in control of her person, she went to the door and closed it very quietly. 

Rory crouched at the top of the stairs, holding the banister. The hem of her skirt brushed the floor. She was trying to make herself go down. There was nowhere else to go. She had checked the other rooms, going through the same heart-stopping torment before she turned each doorknob, each time certain that this time, there would be a horrible Hartzke behind the door, ready to snatch her off her feet. The rooms had been different in character(and in their degree of tidiness), but alike in that they were empty of inhabitants. Jess was conspicuous in his absence. If Rory was going to track him down, she would have to look elsewhere. She got to her feet, and took a deep breath. "Here I go and I don't know why," she whispered. "I spin so ceaselessly." 

She tiptoed down the stairs. 

The downstairs hallway was dark and cool. There was nobody around. Rory wondered where the Hartzke brothers were, although as long as they stayed away, she'd be happy. The only important person was Jess; she had to find him, so they could get away together. The front door was just ahead of her, and Rory experienced a moment of intense longing; she wanted to throw open the door, and escape into the sun. She couldn't. She could not leave without Jess. "_Be smart_," he'd whispered in her ear, which Rory had translated as "go without me." It wasn't an option. She wasn't being heroic. It was a simple matter of logic. She had no idea where she was. It wasn't like she could look around and find a convenient envelope with the address to this wretched place. The house was in the middle of nowhere. Rory doubted they even got mail. If she ran, she could call the police and report that her boyfriend had been kidnaped, but what if she could never lead them back to this house? And on her own, she wouldn't know where to go, or who to ask for help. She was in the territory of the Hartzke brothers. Anybody she encountered could be their ally, or at least too afraid of them to risk their wrath. She could find a gas station, or flag down a car, but how was she to recognize a neutral party? 

Across from the stairs was the living room, where she had spent so much time tied up last night. She took a few steps into the room, to make sure Jess wasn't there. She was almost certain he wasn't. She was getting to know the house very well; the air had a stale, stillness about it that told her in advance that the room was empty. She peered over the sofa, in the direction of the TV, looking at her corner and looking away before she could become too upset. Emotionally, she was tapped out. She had to be very careful. 

She jumped. The phone! She could call 911. She turned to the telephone table. She groaned. So much for that idea. The phone was gone. Rory brushed her hair away from her face, irritated. She was so sore and messy and tired, and now the Hartzke brothers had to go and hide the phone. They always had to make everything so difficult! She was totally fed up with them. 

She noticed there was a shoe box on the coffee table. Someone had dumped out a bunch of photographs. Rory had a little Bluebeard's wife moment there--she almost went over to look before she realized what she was doing. "Oh, God," she said weakly. "Way to incapacitate yourself." She got her feet moving in the opposite direction, and in short order found herself back in the hall. She headed deeper into the house, toward the kitchen. In the daylight, everything looked different. Last night, she had been aware of the space in the house, and the sounds and smells, but she hadn't been able to see a lot of the details. Now, she passed a dining room with maroon walls and a long mahogany table that had seating for ten people. The room was filthy, and except for one place at the head of the table where someone had wiped away the dust and set up a laptop, looked unused. Jess wasn't there. She passed a dark green room that might have been intended to be a den or a library; it was full of boxes. There was a fireplace with a painting of a Springer Spaniel over the mantel. There was also a wall of built-in bookshelves, but not a single book. Rory thought that was very uncivilized. "Jess?" she whispered. "Are you in here?" She walked in, looking in the corners. She was amazed by all the stuff--electronic equipment, mostly. "Bizarre," she said, under her breath. Jess was nowhere to be found. 

Just before the kitchen, she found another door. It was padlocked, up near the top of the door frame, almost out of her reach. A closet? The basement? Why was this door locked from the outside? Rory's heart leapt. She grabbed the doorknob, and gave it a rattle. "Jess!" she hissed. She hit the door with the palm of her hand. "Jess? Are you in there?" She looked up at the lock. She got Jess's knife out of her bra, and snapped it open. How did he do it? How did Jess unlock things? She turned the knife over in her hand, hoping for a clue. She couldn't believe she had known Jess Mariano for a year, and hadn't made him show her how to pick a lock. In retrospect, she found that to be terribly short sighted. 

The knife had a several different gizmos, in addition the blade. With the exception of the corkscrew, the purpose of these items was a mystery to Rory, although there was a long, thin, toothpick-type thingie with a bend at the end that looked promising, in a movie-ish, lockpick-y way. She stood on her toes, reaching up, and tried to insert the whatchamacallit into the lock. She had a passing thought--did Maurice Emmell know how to pick a lock?--but it drifted out of her brain without leaving much of an impression. Before long, she became dizzy. She was much too tired to hold her arms above her head. She was going to have to get a chair to stand on. A trifle unsteadily, she made her way down to the kitchen. 

She entered the garish, sunny kitchen at the same moment Buddy Hartzke opened the back door. He was wiping his hands on a rag. His face was comical with astonishment. "Hey," he said. 

"Oh, no," said Rory weakly. 

"So . . . what are you doing?" Buddy asked. 

"Get away from me," said Rory, turning on her heel. 

"Come back here!" Buddy snapped. 

"Don't touch me!" shrieked Rory. She ran away. The front door opened, flooding the hallway with sunlight, and there was Len Hartzke, looking very bent out of joint. 

"I can't find him anywhere," Len was saying. His eyes widened. "What the hell?" 

Rory came to a stop, panting. She felt like she wanted to cry, or pee her pants. "She has a knife," called Buddy Hartzke, from somewhere behind her. 

"Perfect," said Len sourly. The next thing Rory knew, she was on the floor, choking. She was trying to curl up. She had to protect her stomach. Len rolled her on her back. He got on top of her and pinned her down by kneeling on either side of her skirt. Rory hitched in a painful breath. She was going to scream. She was shocked when Len grabbed her wrist. He stretched her arm up over her head, and smacked her hand into the floor. She yowled, letting go of the knife. Len picked it up and tossed it away. Rory heard the knife go skittering across the hardwood floor and felt a terrible sadness. That was Jess's knife, and she'd wanted to keep it. She'd never get it back, now. 

"I'm disappointed in you," Len Hartzke said. "We had an understanding." 

"Yeah, well--I'm finished," Rory said, wheezing. "I'm leaving." 

"No, you're not," said Len. 

"Yes, I am," Rory replied, squirming under him. "Get off me!" 

Len put a hand on either side of her head. "Nobody leaves without my permission. If people would just appreciate that, life would be easier for everybody." 

"You can't keep me here!" Rory cried. "I don't know why you think you can! Let me go!" 

Len's cell phone rang. He got it out of his pocket, and stuck it between his chin and his shoulder. "Yeah?" He listened. "Don't do that," he said quickly. "Just get out. _Now_. If they can't find you . . . yeah." 

"Help!" Rory yelled, making a grab for the phone. "Whoever you are--help me! Please!" 

"Just a second," Len said into the phone. He slapped a hand over her mouth, and bent down so he was only an inch or so from her. She made a noise, and tried to turn her head. She could feel his hot breath on her face as he whispered, "He doesn't give a damn about you. This guy--you could be screaming fire, you could be screaming rape, you could be screaming bloody murder, and he wouldn't give a shit. Now, shut the fuck up or I'm going to knock your block off." 

Flailing, Rory hit him in the face with the heel of her palm. She kicked her feet, and he shifted slightly, removing his hand. "Get off me," she groaned. She put her hands on his chest and tried to shove him away. "Help! Help me!" 

Len grabbed both her wrists. "Oh, for the love of God." He looked up. "A little help?" 

Rory heard Buddy Hartzke say, "Sure." Len slid off her. Buddy got her under the arms, and hauled her to her feet. He wrapped an arm around her waist. "Give me your belt," he said to Len. 

"What are you going to do?" Rory said shrilly, struggling. She stomped on his foot. She balled up her fists and stuck his thick forearm, trying to make him let go of her. 

Buddy laughed. "Isn't it cute, the way she does that?" he said to Len. 

"Yeah, whatever," said Len. He undid his belt buckle, and whipped off his belt. "Here." He handed it to Buddy, turning away to resume his phone call. 

"Thanks," Buddy said. 

"Oh," said Rory, feeling sick. "What are you going to do with that?"   


  
Buddy carried her to the kitchen and shoved her into a chair. It was the same chair she'd sat in last night, nursing her swollen cheek with a bag of frozen peas. "You're being a very bad girl." He shook the belt in her face, and Rory cringed. "Don't you know we have a lot on our minds?" 

"Don't hit me," Rory said, frightened. 

"I ought to spank you," he said. "Your main problem is you haven't been hit enough." 

"That's not my main problem," she said hotly. 

"Don't be smart," Buddy said, getting behind the chair. "Put 'em up." 

"What?" Rory twisted in her seat. 

"Arms," he said. 

Tentatively, Rory put up her arms. Buddy threaded the belt through the slats of the chair. He brought it around Rory's torso, just under her breasts. "Hey!" she protested, as he pulled it tight. He buckled the belt at the back of the chair, securing her in place. 

"There," Buddy said, sounding satisfied. "Now, with me keeping an eye on you, maybe you'll stay put." 

"Dammit," said Rory, squirming. 

"Don't swear," Buddy admonished. "It's ugly when girls swear." Rory tried to reach behind her, to get at the belt buckle. The chair was too wide. Buddy laughed. "Oh, you're stuck, all right." 

"Untie me!" She very much wanted to get up. She was finding it hard to catch her breath. 

"Put your hands in your lap and sit there quietly," Buddy said. 

"Please undo me." Rory strained against the belt, panting. "I think I'm going to be sick." 

"You're not gonna be sick," Buddy said. He seemed to consider the situation. "Maybe you're gonna pass out." 

"I can't breathe," Rory said, kicking in frustration. The chair didn't even move. She kicked again and hit the kitchen table. "Let me up!" 

"Aw, you're just hyperventilating," Buddy said. "It's not serious." 

"Please!" 

"Sit still," Buddy said. "Think about kittens, or birthday cake." 

"I can't . . . I can't . . ." She was starting to get foggy. 

"Be a quiet girl, just for a little while," Buddy said. "Can you do that?" 

"Please," Rory gasped. "I can't breathe!" 

"Do you want something?" Buddy asked. "We could have breakfast. Kid? You want to eat? Hey . . . are you awake?" 

It was the rich smell of coffee percolating that brought her around. Groggily, she lifted her head. "What?" she said thickly. "What happened?" 

From behind her, Buddy said cheerfully, "I'm making scrambled eggs." 

Rory tried to turn, and look at him, but couldn't; like a small child strapped into a car seat, she was still belted to the chair. "Oh," she moaned. "Please, let me up." 

"You _are_ delicate," Buddy Hartzke said, as if they were in the middle of a conversation. "You're like one of those girls who never does anything." 

"What?" said Rory, confused. She was feeling very out of it. "I do plenty of things." 

"You're always passing out," Buddy observed. "Every two seconds." 

"No," said Rory. "Somebody is knocking me out every two seconds. You people are insane." 

"I was hoping you could take over around here," Buddy said. Rory heard him crack an egg. There was the sound of a whisk against a metal bowl. "Like, clean up and stuff. Cook. But now I'm thinking maybe you're just for decoration." 

"You want me to cook for you?" Rory said incredulously. "And clean?" 

There was the sound of a pan sizzling. He was probably melting butter. "Decoration," Buddy ruminated. "And to fuck, of course." 

"Oh, God," said Rory weakly. 

Buddy sighed. "If we get this shit sorted out--" 

"What shit?" interrupted Rory. She needed to know what was going on. 

"You swear in my hearing and I'm going to put a tea towel in your mouth," Buddy said darkly. 

"_You_ said it." 

"I mean it," Buddy said sharply. "Only cheap girls swear. Think about it." 

"Think about what?" said Rory tiredly. She heard the toaster pop. She tried to look over her shoulder. 

"Right now," Buddy said, "pretty much the only thing you've got going for you is that Len thinks you're sort of fancy." 

"Oh," said Rory, hollowly. He was right. Sometimes, Buddy Hartzke could be a lot smarted than he seemed. She squeezed her legs together, shivering. If Len had some odd impression that she was sort of . . . well, upscale, it was probably the thing that had protected her thus far. 

There was another sizzle, as Buddy poured the eggs. The toaster popped again. She could smell the eggs cooking. She heard metal on metal, as he stirred the pan. Buddy put a woven placemat on the table in front of her. He folded a pink paper napkin, and set it off to the side. He disappeared behind her. When he came back, he put a fork on the napkin. He set a plate of eggs and toast in front of her. "Dig in," he said. 

"Are you eating?" she asked suspiciously. 

"You bet," he said, and a moment later he was installed at the table, with his own plate. He hadn't bothered with a placemat or a napkin for himself. What he did have was a steaming cup of coffee. Rory inhaled the coffee aroma and was immediately caught up in a caffeine jones. She absolutely _had_ to have a cup of coffee. "You're not eating," Buddy observed. 

She wriggled in her seat, plucking at the belt. It was digging into her ribs. "I think I could digest better if you took this off." 

"Tough." 

"Please," she begged. "It's not necessary." 

"Shut up," he said, shoveling in a mouthful of eggs. 

"May I have a cup of coffee?" she asked. That was her primary objective. She knew he was never going to untie her. 

"You're too young to drink coffee." 

"Please?" Rory wheedled. "Please? I really, really want one." 

Buddy Hartzke groaned and got to his feet. He went to the refrigerator. Rory saw him get out a carton. He poured a glass, and set it beside her plate. "What's this?" she asked. 

"Vitamin C," he replied, sounding surly. He gestured with his fork. "Eat your eggs. I kicked them up a notch." 

"What?" 

"I prepared them special." He looked at her. "I separated the eggs and beat the whites so they'd be really, really fluffy." 

"Oh." She looked at her plate. The eggs _were_ very fluffy. 

"I wanted it to be nice," he said. 

"A cup of coffee would be nice," she said. 

"Shut up and eat." 

"How is it, that you think I'm too young for a cup of coffee, but not too young to--?" She couldn't say it. 

He shrugged. "I don't make the rules. Besides, you already had a guy, right? And a guy like that wouldn't exactly hang around if you weren't putting out. So, what's the big deal?" He laughed, shaking his head. "Len didn't totally think this through. He thinks you're so--" Buddy broke off, shrugging. 

Rory looked away, her face red. 

He took a bite of toast. "Len gets these _ideas_. He's very dumb that way. I mean, how pure can you can be, running around with low-rent trash?" 

"Shut up!" 

"I bet he had you on your back, like, five minutes after you met." 

"Where is he?" she asked, her chest tight. "Where's Jess? Is he all right?" 

"Dead," said Buddy. "Dead, dead, dead. I killed him myself." 

Rory's stomach lurched. "The last time you said that . . . it wasn't true." 

Buddy laughed. "It's none of your business, anyhow." 

"None of my business! He's my boyfriend." 

"Ex-boyfriend," Buddy corrected. "He's your ancient history." 

"Please tell me," she said, looking at her lap. "Please . . . just tell me the truth." 

"Drink your juice," Buddy said. "Then maybe you won't be such a weak sister." 

Rory looked up at him, her eyes shiny with tears. "I'm going to cry," she announced. 

"Well, you have a napkin," Buddy said. 

"Please," she said, her voice husky. "Just tell me the truth." Her shoulders shook, and then she was crying. 

"You're so pretty," Buddy said, his voice soft with wonderment. "I can't get over it." 

Rory stared wetly at Buddy Hartzke, her mouth open. What a ridiculous person! She lost her temper. She picked up her plate. She didn't have the courage to throw it at him, so she threw it at the wall. The toast bounced away, but the eggs stuck. "You sick fuck!" Rory screamed, which was what Jess had called him last night. "I hate you! Argh!" She started to struggle. 

He took a sip of coffee, watching her over the rim of the cup. He put down his coffee, and picked up his fork. Rory's eggs began to slide down the wall. Buddy ate his breakfast, as Rory groaned, squirming and fighting, trying to get free of the belt. 

"God!" Rory sobbed, her shoulders heaving. Exhausted, she gave up. She slid the napkin out from under her fork and used it to wipe her nose. 

Buddy took a triangle of toast from his plate and held it out to her. After a moment, she accepted it, and he said, "What did we say about swearing?" 

"I'm sorry," she said sullenly. 

"I think you might have hypoglycemia," he said. He reached for her fork, and took it away. He put it on his side of the table. "It's the only thing that can account for an outburst like that." 

"I do not have hypoglycemia." She nibbled a corner of the toast. 

"Drink your juice," said Buddy Hartzke. 

They were side by side on the sofa. Rory had her hands between her knees. She was staring at the ceiling so she wouldn't have to look at the photographs that were spread out in a fan on the coffee table. Her stomach was growling. She wished she hadn't thrown her breakfast at the wall. She should have eaten every bite. She pressed her lips together. Len had just told her she'd better start thinking about making him happy. Those had been his exact words. "You'd better start thinking about making me happy." 

Rory held up a shaky hand. "Wait." She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He was too scary. She couldn't look directly at him. "Where is Jess?" 

Len scowled. "That's not the point of this discussion. We're talking about me, here." 

"I know, I know," Rory said tiredly. "It's all about you. I just want to know where Jess is." 

"How about this?" Len said. "You be sweet to me, and maybe I won't hurt him too badly." 

Startled, she looked directly at him. What was that supposed to mean? Was he actually trying to tell her that whatever happened to Jess--whatever terrible things Len Hartzke decided to do to him--would be her fault? Was it another game? Was he messing with her mind? Mutely, she shook her head. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. When she could talk, she said, "You're such a liar." 

"Watch your mouth." 

"He's dead, isn't he?" 

"He will be soon if you don't smarten up." 

Rory tried to conceal her excitement, and failed miserably. "Where is he?" she asked quickly. 

Len raised an eyebrow. "You're a real piece of work, you know that? So, what do you want? The floor, the sofa? We could go upstairs." 

"Pardon?" 

"The sofa it is." Shoving her back, he climbed on top of her. 

She couldn't move. She was so afraid! Len undid her shirt, exposing her bra, and she lay there, flat on her back. Her arms were flung up and her hands were limp and useless, one at either side of her head. I don't have to be here, she was thinking. I can just . . . go away. 

Len shoved up her bra. Desperately, Rory tried to send herself somewhere else. He reached down between their bodies. She turned her face away. 

"Oh," he said, sounding breathless. "Oh, yes." He shifted on top of her, and started to undo his jeans. 

It wasn't working! She could feel it all. There was no way she was going to be able to hide from this. She had a thought. It went something like this: _Wait a minute_. 

Len whispered something in her ear that she didn't catch. She was having a new thought. It was interesting and sort of complex. If he rapes me, she was thinking, then that's something he did to me. I'll have to live with it, but it will be something he did because he's big and mean and strong. But if I don't try to resist him, if I don't at least try . . . that will be something I did to me. And living with _that _. . . I don't know if I could. 

Len was pushing up her skirt. In a minute he was going to find the money. He'd see that she'd been stealing from him. 

_Wake up Rory!_ she screamed in her head. 

She laced her hands together, the way she'd seen Buddy do it last night in Asbury Park. As hard as she could, she brought them down on Len Hartzke's head. The jolt went all the way up to her elbows, and her fingers crunched together in a sickening fashion. 

"What the fuck?" he said, propping himself up with his arms. Rory swung again, this time going sideways. She got him in the cheek, but he rolled with it, off her and over the coffee table. The photographs fell away, fluttering like apple blossoms. The table overturned as he slid to the floor. "You little bitch," he said, getting to his feet. In the vee of his fly, Rory could see his dark blue shorts, and the yellow fuzz on his stomach. He kicked the table off to the side. "You did not just try to hit me!" 

Rory pushed herself up, drawing in her legs. He advanced on her, and she kicked. She aimed for his groin, but didn't quite connect. She got a piece of his thigh. 

He slapped her so hard she saw stars. She fell sideways on the cushions, crying. "You just made your life a whole lot harder," he spat, pulling her roughly to her feet. 

"Let go of me!" she sobbed, struggling. 

"We're going to have a long, long time to get to know each other," he said angrily. 

"No, we're not!" she screamed. 

"Now I have to punish you!" 

"No, you don't!" She struck him, and managed to turn in his arms. "You're crazy!" 

"I should have taken my money out of Mariano's hide," Len said. He caught her under the arms and began to pull her down the hall. 

"No!" She dug in her heels, to no avail. Her saddle shoes slipped and bounced on the hardwood floor. 

"Maybe I can still salvage this situation," he said, huffing. Apparently she had hurt him, at least a little. "But right now, I'm not in the mood to deal with you." He dragged her past the dining room. Rory lunged and grabbed the door frame, hanging on for dear life. "Jesus," he said. He peeled off her fingers, one by one. 

"Ow, ow!" she yelped. "Where are you taking me?" 

"Do that again," he said, "and I'll break them all." 

"Let go!" She struggled. 

"Yeah, I'm going to." He stopped at the door Rory had investigated earlier, the one that was locked. He shoved her up against the wall. He held her in place with a hand around her throat. 

"What are you doing?!" She clutched his wrist. "What are you going to do with me?" 

He got a set of keys out of his back pocket, and fumbled through them, looking for the right one. With one foot, he hooked her ankle. Her feet flew out from under her, and she fell to the floor. "When I'm in a better mood, we'll try this again." 

"No!" she cried, trying to scuttle away. He stepped on the hem of her skirt. 

"Shut the fuck up." He got the door open. His hand grazed her breast as he reached for her upper arm. 

Without seeing quite how it happened, Rory found herself teetering on a dark threshold. "Wait!" she said desperately. "Wait a minute!" 

"What now?" he said irritably. 

"Jess," she said, over her shoulder. "What did you do to him?" 

He laughed. He put a hand on the small of her back, in the exact place a guy would put his hand if he was going to lead a girl out on a dance floor. "I killed him ages ago," he said. 

"What?" said Rory. 

He pushed, and she went flying. 

Rory sat at the counter, with her legs crossed like a grownup girl. She was wearing pink jelly sandals, and was a little obsessed with them. She bobbed her foot, looking down at her shoe. "Hands," said Luke, coming out of the kitchen. Rory and Lane exchanged a glance. They had washed their hands only two minutes previous, at the water fountain in the square. They held them out, palms up, for inspection. Luke peered at them closely. "Well, I guess that's acceptable," he said grudgingly. "What can I get you?" 

Rory reached into the bumble bee pocket of her sun dress, and extracted a bill. Lane, who was sitting on the stool beside her, wearing red stretchy pants and a bright green T-shirt, made an appreciative sound. Rory unfolded the bill, and slapped it on the counter. "Hah!" 

"That's a lot of money," Luke said. "Where did you get it?" 

Rory wrinkled up her nose. "A gift?" 

Luke shook his head. 

Rory hunched her shoulders, embarrassed. "I stole it," she said meekly. 

"That's not good," said Luke. "Only bad girls steal." 

"But we want milkshakes!" Rory whined. 

Luke crossed his arms. "How about a nice plate of broccoli?" 

"You think that's funny," Rory said darkly, "but it's not." She slurred the last two words together. 

Lane clapped a hand over her mouth, giggling. 

"It's not," Rory repeated. 

"No," said Luke. "It's _broccoli_." 

"They're both green," Lane offered. She pointed to her T-shirt. "Green!" The girls laughed uproariously. There was a jingle, and Rory and Lane turned to look at the door. "Oh," breathed Lane. "That's your baby-sitter." 

"You go away!" Rory said angrily. 

"You're coming with me," said the baby-sitter, gathering Rory up. 

"No!" Rory squirmed. "Help! Help!" The baby-sitter carried Rory out of the diner. She walked quickly down the sidewalk, hugging Rory to her chest. Rory hung on like a little monkey. "You're a big meanie!" she protested. "You leave me alone!" 

"I'm sure it's very comforting to take refuge in this ludicrous scenario," the baby-sitter said. "But it's time to be a big girl, now. You have things to do. You have to get away." 

"I can't," Rory said petulantly. "I tried! It didn't work." 

"Oh, shut up," snapped Paris. She stopped at the corner, looking both ways for cars. 

"They're too big!" Rory cried. "They're hurting me! I don't know what to do!" 

"You have to keep trying," Paris said. "Are you really going to give up?" 

"I'm scared," Rory confessed. "I'm so damn scared." 

"Get over it." Paris said. "Is this any way to run a rescue?" 

"What?" Rory was confused. "Somebody has to rescue _me_." 

"Wake up, Rory," Paris said. 

Rory opened her eyes. There wasn't much difference between having her eyes open, and having her eyes closed. She couldn't see a thing. She wasn't even sure her eyes were really open. With a great deal of effort, she lifted her arm. She touched her face. Open. Her eyes were open. "My eyes are open," she said aloud. Her voice was thick and almost unrecognizable. She cleared her throat. "Hello?" she said, experimentally. "I'm really cold." She closed her eyes. "I don't think I can get up just now." 

She had no way of knowing how long she lay in the cold and the dark. Every once in a while she would startle and come awake, only to fade out a short time later. When she woke up for good, there was a jumble of sounds, her heartbeat; her own breathing; the furnace. It swelled scarily, like the ocean, or the start of a symphony, and she was frightened. It was that fear that shocked her into consciousness. Boom. She was aware, and she knew where she was. She was in the basement. Len Hartzke had shoved her down the stairs. She was sprawled on a hard-packed dirt floor. She was aching, partly from the fall, and partly from the cold. Her hip was very sore. So was her shoulder. 

"I didn't hit my head," she said. "I just got the wind knock out of me." She coughed. "And now I'm gonna stand up." She planted her palms firmly on the ground. She dragged herself into a sitting position. Her head swam. "Keep going," she said, gritting her teeth. She got to her hands and knees. She put one foot on the floor. With a hand on her knee, she pushed, and suddenly she was vertical, standing tall. She swayed. "Oh-oh," she said, as her knees collapsed. She only intended to fall to her knees, but when her knees hit, sending out a jarring burst of pain, she kept going. She fell face first into the dirt. "Ouch," she said, her cheek plastered to the floor. "Maybe later." 

Her mind went blank. It was a real problem. It was hard to get motivated to move, or stand up, with her mind as empty as it was. After a long while, something came to her, from far away. She could just make it out. Verse. It was verse. Her first coherent thought in ages. This is what it was: "Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew." 

Being able to remember that made her absurdly happy. 

The basement was as black as a night without stars, and about fifty thousand times more creepy. Rory heaved herself up on her knees. Shivering in the dank cold, she tucked herself back into her bra. Buttoning her shirt was a real challenge; her hands wouldn't stop shaking. She almost burst into tears when she realized she'd done it wrong. She had a button left over at the bottom. She didn't want to be naked! She was very upset that Len Hartzke had gotten a look at her chest. He had dragged her down the hallway with her breasts exposed! She wrapped her arms around herself, trembling. 

She was in a small room. Periodically, she could hear the furnace. "Jess?" she whispered tentatively. She hadn't really believed Len, when he'd told her Jess was dead. The Hartzke brothers would want to keep Jess alive, so they could torment him. It would be so much more fun for them, that way. Rory coughed, and cleared her throat. "Are you in here?" 

The only light was from a small strip under the door at the top of the unfinished wooden stairs. On her hands and knees, Rory crawled to the stairs. She looked up. She had to at least try the door. She'd feel like a fool if she didn't, and found out later it had been unlocked. Very unsteady, she got to her feet. Leaning heavily on the wall, she climbed the stairs, one step at a time, treading very carefully. The effort made her pant. When she got to the top, she pressed her ear to the door. She couldn't hear anything. She reached for the doorknob. She gave it a twist. There was a sound--feet in the hallway--and on the other side, someone gave the door a whomp with his fist. Rory jumped back in fright, and almost lost her balance. She scurried down the stairs and hid in the shadows. 

"Give me the light," Rory murmured. "Upon thy life I charge thee, whate'er thou hearest or seest, stand all aloof, and do not interrupt me in my course." She paced the basement, waving her arms in front of her so she wouldn't bang into a wall. She was trying to find another way out. The main thing that was confusing her was that the room was so small. The house was really big. How could the basement be so small? 

"The time and my intents are savage-wild," she said, scraping her fingers on a cinder block wall. "More fierce and more inexorable far, than empty tigers or the roaring sea." She paused, her palms flat to the wall. She felt along it until she came to a corner. She continued, patting the wall with her hands. "How oft when men are at the point of death," she recited, "have they been merry!" She came to another corner. The next wall wasn't concrete. It seemed to be made of plywood. She ran her hands over it, looking for a joint, or a seam. 

In the blackness, Rory was feeling weird and rubbery. She stuck out her tongue. She rolled her eyes. Feeling around, knocking occasionally on the wood, she reflected that it didn't matter what she looked like. It was so dark, she could pull all the faces she wanted. She grinned like a maniac. She crossed her eyes--not that it made much difference, she could hardly see as it was. She was giving herself a headache. No, she already had a headache. She'd had one for the longest time. "I did _not_ hit my head," she said querulously. "I'm making faces because I want to. There's no one to see." 

She started to feel like there was someone. Someone was watching her. She remembered the movie _Silence of the Lambs_, and started to feel someone was watching her with night vision goggles. A murderer, no less. He was being very quiet, walking where she walked, staying just behind her. Rory stood still. "Hello?" she said, with trepidation. 

She was creeping herself out. She used her ninja powers, and all her psychic abilities, plus her Jedi mind tricks, to determine no one else was there. Then she decided someone _was_ there. But it was a space alien. "Stop being such a ninny, Gilmore!" Saying the word 'ninny' amused her, because she never, ever said it. She began to sing. "R-E-S-C-U-E, Rescue Aid Society! Heads held _high_, touch the _sky_, you mean _everything_ to me!" 

She started to feel better. She resumed her search. She remembered the movie _Se7en_. She started to get creeped out again. Really creeped out. Grossed out, too, which was even worse. She started to shiver. There was a low rumble, and the furnace kicked in. Rory stopped in her tracks. "Hey!" she said. "Where the heck is the furnace?" 

The door at the top of the stairs opened, throwing a rectangle of white light onto the floor. Wild-eyed, Rory drew back into the shadows. When Len Hartzke had said he was going to punish her, she'd thought this was it, being locked in the terrible cold of the basement. She hadn't considered that there might be a more creative aspect to the punishing. Her heart in her throat, almost despairing, she pressed herself against the wall. I'm on my last legs here, she thought. I can't take much more! 

Her worst suspicions were confirmed when a figure stepped into the light. She knew who it was before he spoke. Hadn't Len threatened her with this? If she was bad, he was the one who was supposed to teach her a lesson. "Here, kitty, kitty," Buddy Hartzke called. 

Rory slid down the wall to sit on her heels. She put her hands over her mouth. 

"I know you're there." 

She bit back a sob. 

"Come out. I want to look at you." 

There was nowhere to go. 

"Don't make me come down there!" 

Shaking, Rory stumbled to the foot of the stairs. The light was hot and painful. She put up a hand to shield her eyes. What was he going to do? She couldn't bear to think. 

"I brought you a sandwich," he said, and Rory looked up, surprised. Buddy was crouched at the top of the stairs, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. 

"A suh–sandwich?" 

"PB and Marshmallow Fluff. I got you the fluff when I went to get ice." 

"Ice?" said Rory, alarmed. What did he need ice for? 

"_And_ I cut it into triangles. But don't throw it at the wall. Unless you _like_ making me mad." 

"You made me a Fluffernutter?" 

"Maybe I should cut the crusts off," he mused. 

"What kind of peanut butter?" asked Rory. 

He raised an eyebrow. "What?" 

"What kind of peanut butter?" said Rory shrilly. "Because I only like crunchy!" 

"You're very high maintenance!" Buddy snapped. 

Rory stamped her foot. "I won't eat it! I won't eat it if it's not the kind I like!" 

"Well, shit," he said. "I have the other kind. Hang on." He stepped back, and kicked the door closed. 

As soon as he was gone, Rory raced up the stairs. She was just reaching for the doorknob, when she heard a thunk. The lock. "_Dammit_," she hissed. She slunk back down the stairs. 

Buddy returned a few minutes later, presumably with a new sandwich. Rory came right away into the light. "Hey, pretty girl," he greeted her. This time, he also had a glass, the contents of which gleamed blue-white in the light from the hall. Milk. 

Rory stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up at him. "How long are you going to keep me down here?" 

"At least until tomorrow." 

"And then what happens?" 

"You know what," he said. 

"Can't I come upstairs? I'm so cold." 

"You should have thought of that ahead of time," he said. "You can't kick a guy in the balls and expect the Ritz." 

"Did I get his--?" She broke off. She wasn't sure whether Buddy considered 'balls' to be a swearword. 

Buddy laughed. "A little bit, yeah." 

"Good," she said, with grim satisfaction. 

He shook his head. "Not good. You can't make him mad at you." 

"What time is it?" she asked. 

"About a hundred years has passed," he said. "I came down to look at you twice, while you were sleeping." 

"Oh, no," said Rory, and she started to shake. 

"You were half naked," he said. 

Almost in slow motion, Rory sank to her knees. She put her hands over her face. "You don't have the right," she choked out. She wiped her eyes, and looked up at him angrily. "Did you touch me?" 

He shrugged. 

"You touched me before!" 

"I never touched you," he said. 

"I know you did!" she insisted, although she still wasn't sure. 

"That's my story and I'm sticking to it," he said. "And if you say different to Len, I'll make things really tough for you." 

Rory folded her arms across her stomach, feeling sad and lost. "Listen," she said finally. "Surely you can see this is . . . impractical. You can't keep a girl locked in your basement. You can't . . . you can't keep a girl locked up like a _pet_." 

"Pets," he said, sounding amused. 

"What?" 

"Nothing. We'll work something out. I was thinking, like--a long chain or something, so you can't run away." 

"What?!" said Rory, horrified. 

"It's more of a protection for you, really," he explained. "What if you got lost?" 

"Oh," Rory said. "Oh, God." 

"Do you want your sandwich or not?" 

"You can't keep me," she said. "Let me go! You can be the hero, here." 

"I can be your hero baby," he said. "I can make you a peanut butter sandwich. Look, I gave you an Oreo." 

"Oh . . . okay." She looked away. 

He set the plate and the glass of milk on the top step. He shut the door, cutting off the light. After a little while, Rory went up to fetch the sandwich. She tapped the plate with her fingertips. Plastic. So was the milk glass. She carried her dinner down, and sat on the bottom stair. She ate every bite of the sandwich, and the cookie. She drank the milk, as well. 

With renewed vigor, Rory resumed her search. Chain, she thought sickly. A long chain. So I can never run away. 

She knew now that the basement was partitioned off. The room she was in was only a small portion of it; the rest of the basement was on the other side of the plywood wall. But how to get through? In the darkness, she felt her way along the wall, kicking it occasionally, just to see what would happen. It had occurred to her that since she'd checked all the other rooms in the house, it was possible Jess was over there, alone in a solitary cell, just as she was. The other side of the wall. She had to get there. "Please be okay, Jess," she whispered. "I'm coming." 

After a while, music started to bleed through the floor. It was loud and repetitive, and with her headache, fairly irritating. Rory began to get the impression that there were other people in the house. Buddy had frightened her when he'd said he had gone on an ice run, but it sounded like the Hartzke brothers were entertaining. Could they possibly be having a party, with two teenage captives locked away downstairs? Rory wouldn't put it past them, but even that was beyond the pale. With her palms flat on the wall, she stopped. Worriedly, she chewed her bottom lip. Len was mad at her, but she belonged to him, right? That was what he thought. He wouldn't give her to someone else, for the fun of it--would he? That would sort of negate the whole 'classy' thing. Her heart skipped a beat. She really had no way of knowing what Len Hartzke would or wouldn't do. 

She shivered. "I have to get out of here!" Reaching above her head, she whacked the wall with her fist. There was a clang, and she reared back, her hand throbbing. Metal. That was metal. She put the side of her hand in her mouth, sucking. She had a cut, just under her pinkie finger. It really hurt. Metal. She'd found a grate. 

She was amazed. I think I can fit through there, she thought, measuring her widest part--her hips--with her hands. She couldn't believe it. It was the first _convenient_ thing that had happened to her in ages. She wondered what the purpose of it was. If she somehow found a way to climb through it, would she tumble into the furnace and die a fiery death? She put her hand on the screen. It seemed too big to be a heating vent, and anyway, it wasn't warm. She'd heard the furnace several times, but she wasn't getting any heat at all. Was it an air vent? She jumped up and tried to look through it, but all she got was the impression of a space behind the screen. Maybe this was the source of the air she was breathing. Maybe it was circulating the air around the basement. Rory couldn't figure out what the grate was for, but she decided it was going to be her method of escape. 

There were a couple of logistical problems. First, the screen was screwed into the wall. The second problem was that it was rather high up off the floor. She could reach the bottom of it, but with nothing to stand on, she'd never be able to reach the top. And there was nothing to stand on. She'd pretty much established that she was the only thing in the basement. First things first. She had to unscrew the screws. How was she going to do that? Reaching over her head, she picked at one with her fingernails, resting her forehead against the wall. No good. The screw didn't budge. She was only ripping her fingernails. In frustration, Rory kicked the wall. She kicked it twice more, in time with the music from upstairs. She let out a string of all the bad words she knew. She even made up a few. She remembered that she had a razor blade wrapped up in a subscription card, tucked away in the heel of her shoe. 

She knelt, and untied the lace. Her hands were shaking. She sat in the dirt, and pulled off her saddle shoe. The paper was damp and mushy. She picked it out of the heel, and unwrapped her blade. "This is my way out," she said. "I'm leaving for real, this time." 

With one shoe on, and one shoe off, she stood on her toes, reaching. She fumbled several times, because her hands were still numb from when they had been tied behind her back. Finally, she slid the edge of the blade into the slot head of one of the screws. Careful of her fingers, she gave it a twist. The screw was brand new, and not rusty at all. It turned easily. Rory twisted it far enough so that she could grasp it with her fingers. She pulled it out the rest of the way, and tossed it over her shoulder. 

Rory knew nothing of carpentry. It wasn't her bag. It wasn't until many years later she found out that there were different types of screws. She was at the Home Depot with a girlfriend, who was in the process of constructing a ramp for her elderly mother. Rory saw all the screws and started to perspire. She had to grab the shelf, because she was panting so hard she was dizzy. "What's wrong?" her friend asked. 

"Stars," she said, her head swimming. When she got home, she took to her bed and stayed there for the entire weekend. 

She got out the other screw. It would have to do. She couldn't reach the two top ones. She retrieved her shoe, and stepped into it, but not before secreting the razor blade back in the heel. She was beginning to appreciate the usefulness of a good blade. Rory pulled the screen away from the wall. She jumped, and after a couple of tries, bent it up. Now there was room for her to crawl through. She tried to pull herself up, walking up the wall. It didn't work. She slid back down, banging her chin in the process. She almost burst into tears. She had a way out--but she couldn't use it, because she was too weak? 

"Oh," she moaned in frustration. "Help me! Help me figure this out!" Agitated, she paced in a circle, hugging herself. She looked at the grate. She looked at the wall. She looked at the stairs. She could hardly see any of it, it was so dark. Grate. Wall. Stairs. Grate. Wall. Stairs. Milk glass. Plate. Milk glass. Plate. She had a milk glass, and she had a plate. 

She ran to the stairs, snatching up the plastic glass and plate. When Buddy had given them to her, she'd been very disappointed that they were plastic. She had wanted to break them into shards and use them to kill Buddy Hartzke, so she could escape. More darkly, she recognized she might have been planning to kill herself. Hard to say. It would have been nice though, to at least have had that option. She had totally forgotten the razor blade. 

In front of the wall, under the grate, Rory planted the milk glass. She turned it in a circle, pressing down, so that it would be screwed into the ground a little. She put the plate on top of it, and looked at it critically. There would only be room for one of her feet. It would have to be a quick step, jump, pull. With a wiggle tacked on the end. It would work, or it wouldn't. Either the glass or the plate might shatter, and then she would be out of luck. 

Ready, she thought. She took one last look around her dark prison. Yeah, I'm ready to get out of here. 

Get set. She took a deep breath, and rose up on the balls of her feet. She told herself to tuck in her chin, so she wouldn't bump her head. 

_ Go!_

Rory had a vision of herself, crawling on her hands and knees through a silver-blue air duct, maybe humming a little Shirley Bassey under her breath. In reality, it was a very tight, cobwebby squeeze, even for a skinny girl. She sort of had a problem with claustrophobia, too, since she had experienced the nastiness of being tied up. No, she reflected with surprise, her claustrophobia most likely dated back to being trapped under Dean. Dean. She hadn't thought of him in a long time. He seemed so far away, now. All that bad stuff--it was like something that had happened to another girl, in a different lifetime. I don't even know if it matters anymore, she thought. I mean, once you've met the Hartzke brothers, any frothing at the mouth on the part of other guys is kind of small potatoes. _I kicked Len Hartzke in the balls_. I bet I could karate chop Dean, if I wanted to. 

Luckily, the air duct wasn't very long. Rory didn't have the opportunity to become irreversibly stuck and die a grisly death of starvation, which was what she'd really been thinking of, while she pretended to ponder the question of her former boyfriend. Almost immediately, there was a bend--she had to turn on her bruised hip to drag herself around it--and a few feet distant, she could see a light. What if I can't get out? she thought, her mouth dry. That would be bad. 

When she got to the next grate, she pressed her face against it, trying to see what was down there. She could hear odd gurgling noises, and other small sounds that were too foreign to discern over the thud of the music. It was a good thing she had her recent experience as a contortionist to guide her, as she twisted around so that her feet were on the screen. She kicked, hitting the grate with her heels, getting more and more frantic as the screen refused to budge. She breathed a sigh of relief when the grate finally popped out, and fell away with a bang. She flipped over on her stomach, and began to push herself out. Her skirt got bunched up, and for a little while, her butt was hanging in the wind as she kicked, struggling. She pushed away from the wall with her feet, and fell backwards. She landed hard. Right away, she rolled over on her stomach. She got up on her hands and knees, with her back bent. Wave after wave up pain rolled over her, all of it originating in her tail bone, which at that point was so hideously sore she was beginning to wonder if it was possible for a person to actually break their ass. Coccyx, she thought sickly. It's called a coccyx. Dear Rory's Coccyx, please don't be broken. When her head cleared, she dragged herself to her feet. 

Rory had expected to find just about anything on the other side of the wall. She had imagined a drug lab, or a counterfeit printing press. Perhaps furs, or gold ingots. She had even steeled herself for a room of sad, ghostlike girls. But there was no way she could have prepared herself for what she did find. She found Hartzke brothers' dark secret. A treasure trove of wonders. 

There was a heavy fire door. She ran to it, and hit the push bar. It was locked from the outside. At the back of the room, across from the furnace, there was a smelly little bathroom. Its primary use seemed to be the storage of paint cans. Disgusted, Rory made use of it, checking first to make sure there was toilet paper. She walked back out to the main room, drying her hands on her skirt. She didn't know what to make of what she saw. She was flabbergasted. 

She was in a warm, humid room. There were bundles of cables running along the ceiling, and hot lights everywhere. The gurgling sound came from the filters in the aquariums. There was a long row of tanks. Some were filled with water, for fish, and some had mesh tops, to keep in other things. To Rory's eye, there were a lot of things wrong with this scenario. At first, the easiest to identify was how bare the fish tanks were. There was no colored gravel, or little castles, or bubbling men in diving suits. Only the fish. She could see Koi, bobbing lazily. There were colorful tropical fish. Right away, she saw a Queen Angel Fish, with blue and orange streamers. Rory gasped. Sea Horses! They were exquisite. 

She saw several different kinds of turtles. She recognized a Wood Turtle. She had read an article about it in the paper. The Wood Turtle was considered to be very intelligent; like a lab rat, it could navigate its way through a maze. It was native to New Jersey, and endangered. It was illegal to remove it from the wild. 

Rory walked down the row of tanks, her eyes wide. There were green turtles. There were small, brown-shelled turtles, with red blotches behind their eyes. She peered over the edge of a large bin, and was amazed to see a marine turtle with a heart shaped shell. She had a white body, but her head and flippers were gray. "You poor thing," Rory said. She wanted to stroke the turtle's head, but didn't dare. 

Then there were the snakes. Rattlesnakes. Spotted snakes. Snakes with stripes, and snakes that were gray-brown in color, with markings between their eyes. There were green snakes curled around forked branches; flecked, multi-colored snakes, sunbathing on flat rocks; and pale, creamy snakes, undulating slowly in the meager space of their tanks. There was a dark blue snake that must have been nine feet long. She saw another tank with a squirming mass of slender snakes with red, yellow, and black stripes. There were three different tanks in a row, and each one held a long, grayish-blue snake. "My God," said Rory weakly. "But what are you all for?" 

She put her hand up to an aquarium filled with enormous Angel Fish, and they all swam to the glass. If Rory hadn't already hated the Hartzke brothers, this would have been a great time to start. Were they really peddling exotic animals? Animals that were endangered? How could they? These animals were on a short list. Some of them were among the last of their kind. The Hartzke brothers were taking them from their natural habitats, and selling them to God knows who--conceivably to people who would mistreat them. Rory pressed her nose against a glass tank, staring at a Timber Rattlesnake. He opened one eye, and stared back at her. Could the snake see her? What was he thinking? In her opinion, the snake looked sad. "Oh," she whispered. "I can't stand it. This is too, too terrible." 

She finished checking the room. She even poked around on the far side, where there were more snakes--lots of snakes!-- in flat wooden crates with mesh tops. Jess wasn't there. She had sort of known he wouldn't be. Had they killed him? Was he dead and buried in the woods? There was a sour taste at the back of her throat, and she swallowed. The pain they must have caused him! He would have been so scared, at the end. _I can't believe he's really gone_, she thought numbly. Everything got gray around the edges. Dizzily, she reached out. Her hand landed on something soft and squishy. Thinking that it was a snake, she almost screamed. It was just a garden hose, spilling off a shelf. Rory wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She took a deep breath. She couldn't allow herself to think about Jess--not yet. She had to keep going! She had to escape. She looked around, and it seemed as if all the fish and turtles and snakes were staring right back at her. Whatever else happened, she was putting a stop to all of this. Even if I have to do it all by myself, she thought resolutely. 

She found the basement window. Standing on her toes, she peeled away the weather-stripping. She hoped the animals wouldn't get too cold. She looked at the window. It was too high, and she was the original 98 lbs. weakling. She went back to the bathroom, and chose a paint can. In passing, she noticed that the color was maroon. She was too tired to pick it up. She dragged the can backwards along the floor, and set it up under the window. 

She was about to step up on the can, when she stopped, startled. She had been thinking in terms of getting clean away. Figuratively collecting all the bits and pieces of herself, and taking them with her, so there would be no evidence of the terrible things that had happened to her. She was planning to rat out the Hartzke brothers about the animals, but she wasn't sure she wanted anyone to know that she had been hurt and terrorized, and made to feel so helpless. It was all so . . . _undignified_. But--what if she did leave something behind? Something small and hidden? If she ever decided she wanted to, she could go to the police, and say, See? I was there. This is what they did to me. 

She bit her lip, thinking hard. It wasn't like she had a lot of stuff. Only her clothes. She could leave one of her stockings, but she didn't want to go barefoot. She had a long hike ahead of her, and she was afraid of getting blisters from her saddle shoes. She certainly wasn't going to leave her skirt. Her panties would be the best, the most damning, but there was no way she was going to parade around without underwear. Sighing, she began to unbutton her shirt. That would be her evidence. It was just for backup, in case she ever wanted to press charges about anything that had happened. The shirt was covered with her DNA. It even had some blood, from her wrists. She slipped out of her shirt, and bunched it up. In her head, she imagined Marg Helgenberger saying, "This shirt is _covered _with epithelials," and almost snorted. Like they couldn't just say 'skin cells,' she thought. She looked around for a good hiding spot. 

After she hid her shirt, she went to stand beside the paint can. She could hardly bear to go. She didn't want to leave all the animals behind. She turned back. Her eyes were smarting. "I'm sorry," she told the animals, her heart aching. "I'm so, so sorry. I don't want to leave you! I promise I'll find a way to get you out of here." 

She climbed out the basement window. 

The peeing man sang a few more bars of his idiotic song. He zipped himself up, and collected his girlfriend. The two of them went inside the house. The moment she heard the door slam, Rory got up into a crouch. She looked behind her. The windows were brightly lit, and she couldn't see any faces. Staying low, she ran for the shed. She got behind it, and stood with her back to the wall, panting. Close call. As soon as she caught her breath, she would head for the woods. Her skirt caught on a loose board, and as she pulled away, she heard it rip. "Oh, brother," she said. 

The back door opened, and she froze. No, no, no, she thought. Go back inside! She heard the flick of a lighter. A sharp, pungent odor wafted her way. She could hear two people talking in low voices. She didn't recognize either of them. Their voices got louder, and her skin crawled. They were coming her way! 

She had to hide. There was nowhere to hide! She should have stayed in the garden! She remembered the loose board. Quickly, she turned. She got down low. Was there enough space? Biting her lips to keep from grunting, she pulled the stiff board aside. She got down on her hip, and fit her shoulders through the opening. Pulling with her arms, and kicking with her legs, she was able to squirm her way into the shed. She got up on her knees, shaking. The board whacked her sore bum as it slid back into place. 

When Rory realized what she was looking at, the bottom dropped out of her stomach. She had never intended to come to the shed. To the extent she had thought of it at all, she had imagined the shed to be like her garage back home, crammed with useless junk. It had never crossed her mind to look inside. She had almost run right past it on her way to the woods. If she had done that, she never would have found him. 

"My God," she whispered. "Jess?"   


~ * ~

To be continued . . .


	16. 16

16. 

She recognized him in the dark, even though it was hard to see; he was familiar to her, and she had been looking for him for a long, long time.   
  
The weathered old shed was cold, and there was a nasty, musty smell. There was a small window in the front wall, but it was up under the eaves, and the faint light it radiated collected in the rafters, floating there, almost useless. Rory had entered by way of a loose board in the long back wall, opposite the off center door. Jess was to her right. She couldn't see his face, and that troubled her--his chin was resting on his chest. His legs were stretched out in front of him. She frowned. Jess would never sit that way.   
  
He hadn't reacted to her arrival. He wasn't moving at all. Rory's heart sped up. She couldn't even tell if he was breathing.   
  
"Jess?" Her voice was little more than a whisper. She began to crawl. The splintery floorboards were rough under her palms and sore knee. She was thinking of Snow White, pale in her glass coffin, a chunk of apple caught in her throat. The apple fell out, and Snow White woke up. She was fine. Rory reasoned that she just had to get Jess out of the shed, so he could fill up his lungs with the fresh night air. She told herself that he was going to be _fine_. 

It seemed like such a great distance, from one end of the shed to the other. In reality, it couldn't have been that far--after all, how big could a shed be? But it was like the most terrible dream. Her eyes were scratchy and her head was throbbing. Her chest was getting heavy, and she was developing a wheeze. She crawled and crawled and sometimes her skirt got caught under her knees, and she had to stop and yank it free. She passed a stack of cordwood loosely covered by a plastic tarp. High above her, shelves bowed under the untidy weight of crates and tools. She saw an earthenware flowerpot, and it made her nervous; the flowerpot was wider than the shelf, and the shelves sagged so much, she was afraid the flowerpot would fall on her head. 

There was a snow shovel, a spade, and a pitchfork. Rory brushed against a bundle of wire of the sort that is used to protect new trees from deer. The wire rattled against the wall; it was impossible to be _quiet_.   
  
She put her hand down on something squishy. Revolted, she let out a little moan. She knew the peanut butter sandwich would come up in a flash if she let it; she fought with herself, and kept it down. With her teeth clenched, she made the decision that a girl who had crawled through cobwebs and poked around snake crates couldn't be swooning all over the place. It would be nonsensical. Lifting her head, she saw that Jess still hadn't moved. She wiped her hand on her skirt. 

When she finally reached him, she sat up on her knees. Jess was awkwardly positioned against a wooden workbench. The bench seemed to be built into the shorter side wall. She squinted, and now she could see the sheen of the duct tape. There were wide bands of it around his arms and chest, lashing him to the middle support leg of the table. Those damn Hartzke brothers! Of course they had him taped up. She heard the softest sound. She put her hand on him, just to make sure. Under the hateful tape, she felt the gentle rise of his chest. She made a soft sound of her own. She touched him again, very gently, with just the tips of her fingers. "Jess? I'm here, now." 

She scrunched down and looked under the table. His arms had been forced behind the post, with his wrists crossed and tightly bound. While she was down there, she fit the back of her hand into his larger, cold palm, wishing his fingers would close around hers. They didn't. She crawled out from under the table to examine the rest of the tie-up. She saw that his legs were taped at the ankle, and again at the knees, which accounted for his stiff, unnatural position. Rory was becoming very cross. The Hartzke brothers were good at tying--it was going to take some work to get him free of all that tape. For Jess alone, it would have been impossible. 

She shook his shoulder. "Jess . . . please. Wake up. Jess?" Her voice caught in her throat and she swallowed. What if he didn't wake up? What if he was really, really hurt? What if he never woke up again? She was scared. If Jess was badly injured, and she moved him, she would only hurt him more. But she had to move him, she had to get him out of the shed! She had to get him through the field, and into the trees, and far away--out of reach of the Hartzke brothers. She bent her head under the weight of the fatigue that washed over her at the thought of all that effort; it was threatening to suck her under. With a certain pathetic desperation, she knew she wanted _him_ to be the one to lead _her_ away from this terrible place. She didn't even know which way to go! A tear dripped down her cheek, stinging. She was sore from all the hitting, and her skin was raw. She let out a ragged sigh, and whispered, "I'm just not that strong." Even though she didn't think he could hear, it was a shameful admission. "I can't carry you. I don't even think I could _drag_ you very far. Or at all. I'm very useless that way." She put a hand at the back of his head, to protect him from the edge of the table top, and with her other hand, lifted his chin. "You have to wake up, okay? I-" 

She gasped in horror, pulling away as if she'd been burnt. She scuttled sideways, hitting the wall of the shed with a hollow thud. Distant voices became sharp with surprise, and Rory remembered too late that there were _people_ outside. She had come into the shed to hide, but it was all she could do to keep from screaming and screaming . . . . 

She couldn't properly comprehend what she had just seen. His eye! _What had happened to his eye?!_

"I'm going to eat lots of fresh vegetables." Rory's voice was just the tiniest bit shaky. She picked at the wretched tape gag, trying to lift a corner. The first thing she had to do was clear his mouth, so he could breathe. She couldn't see very well, but she thought he had some blood caked in his nostrils. Like her, he wheezed when he took a breath. She was talking to him gently, almost crooning. "And I'll drink high protein drinks. Plus, I'm going to study martial arts. You know, for the exercise value. It's a discipline, it's meditative, you work toward a goal. I think I would like that." 

When Rory had looked into Jess's face, and seen the dark shadow where his eye was supposed to be, it had almost snapped her mind. She was a timid girl, sheltered and somewhat cosseted, and she had recently been very badly mistreated by scary men. For a while, she had huddled against the wall, crying hopelessly and shaking her head. 

The Hartzke brothers were _evil_. They had tortured her boyfriend--and rising inside her was the certainty that they'd done it because of her. What had Len Hartzke said? "You be sweet to me, and maybe I won't hurt him too badly." 

_ Oh, God!_ she'd thought, when she could actually form a thought, _If only I'd let Len Hartzke do what he wanted!_   
  
Drying her eyes on the back of her hand, she had pushed away from the wall, and gone to kneel beside Jess. She'd been unwilling to touch him. Terrified, grossed out, what she really wanted to do was run away. _That's Jess!_ she finally told herself--very sternly. _ Stop being such a . . . a weak sister_. She had taken a deep breath, and once again lifted his chin.   
  
"I think I would be . . . happier . . . if I had more, uh, upper body strength. Like, when I go to the market." She got her fingernails under the edge of the tape. "After we settle down, sometimes I'll do that, right?" She hoped the 'we' in that sentence would float into his unconscious brain and stick there, reassuring him. She had said it deliberately, because she wanted to make sure he knew she wasn't going to dump him just because he didn't have an eye anymore. Poor, mutilated Jess! She would never, ever leave him. How could she? It was all her fault! "I could . . . carry more stuff . . . buy things for you that you like to eat . . . ." She was much too tired to allow herself to dwell on the fact that life with Jess was unlikely to be a settling down sort of existence. If anything, they might never be able to stop running. 

She spoke softly, nervously describing a version of their future, but she was thinking about their recent past, Asbury Park in particular. On his knees on the sidewalk, Jess had pleaded with the intractable Len Hartzke. He'd said: "Don't you get that she's a separate person from me? How is hurting her, hurting me?"   
  
At the time, none of it had made sense. Now she knew. It was the way Len Hartzke operated. He exacted a steep price for disobedience. Len Hartzke had told Rory that he was going to punish her. She just hadn't understood that punishing _her_ meant hurting _Jess_.   
  
Suddenly, there was a pulse of memory. It was all stark flashes: strong hands forcing up her chin; her calves trembling as she stood on tiptoe; the sound of the ocean mixing with the ringing in her ears, while Jess called her name, over and over; crazy clown teeth; musk from strange men; the threat of violence so casual it was almost ordinary. Startled, Rory tried to catch the tail end of it, it seemed important. What had happened in Asbury Park? But it was gone. 

"That's odd," she said. "Okay, I'm taking the tape off. Get ready." She held the side of his face taut. With her other hand, she ripped away the gag. His good eye flew open, and she gasped. 

His head snapped back, and she heard it bump the edge of the table. In the back of his throat, he groaned. His whole body tensed. "Get off me, you son of a bitch!" His voice was thick. 

"Jess!" she hissed. "You have to be quiet!" She leaned over him, and tried to put her hand on his mouth. He bucked, hitting her in the gut with his knees. Breathless, she fell forward, sprawling in his lap. She floundered on his legs, helpless; he was struggling, and she couldn't get up. She squirmed, and something pinched her breast through her bra. "Oh, let me up," she moaned, and managed to heave herself off him. Backing up to his ankles, she gasped, "You have to calm down!" 

"Get away from me!" he croaked, and kicked her. 

"Uh!" She fell against the woodpile. There was a crinkly sound, and she slid to the floor, taking part of the tarp with her. She lay on her back, with her eyes watering. In her peripheral vision, she could see Jess straining. There was a creak. Her eyes widened, and she rolled away. A split log fell off the pile, and landed with a thunk, exactly where she had been.   
  
Her heart was thumping, but she got up on her knees, and plodded over to Jess. "That can't be very good for your stitches," she said firmly. She climbed on top of him, hugging his hips with her knees. He drew up his legs, pressing her to his chest. Again she got pinched, but this time it was on the inside of her thigh. She put a hand on either of his shoulders. At her touch, he flinched. She arched her back, afraid he would head butt her. "Jess!" she hissed. "It's me, Rory! You have to calm down!" 

Jess lifted his head, panting. He looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time. His face was almost lost to shadow, but the one good eye glistened wetly. Rory could see that he was struggling to pull himself together. When he recognized her, he was dismayed. His head fell back, and Rory winced as he hit it on the edge of the table. "Rory?" He cleared his throat, and it seemed to her that it hurt him to do so. "_What are you doing here?_" 

"Don't cry! I can't stand it if you cry." She wanted to kiss his throat, so she did. His skin was cool under her cracked lips. "It's going to be okay." 

He swallowed and shook his head. "Now it will never be okay!" 

"Shush," she murmured. She licked him once, with a delicate flick of her tongue. His stubble had grown back. "I'm here now." 

"He told me you were dead," he whispered. 

"He told me _you_ were dead," she whispered back. 

"I thought--I hoped--I wanted you to get away!" 

"Never without you," she whispered. 

"Did he hurt you?" 

"He didn't touch me," she lied. 

"You're really real?" 

"I'm really real." 

"Not a ghost?" 

"I'm not a ghost." 

"Touch me. You can touch me, can't you? I won't touch you." He choked out a laugh. "I couldn't touch you anyways." 

"It's okay," she crooned. She wrapped her arms around him, and tucked her face into his neck. She became aware of his smell. It was his own smell, but so much more intense. It was wonderful. She breathed it all in, and it spun her head. She became confused, and didn't know why. "Jess . . . it's all right. I'm getting you out of here." 

"He told me-" 

She cut him off. "They tell the most terrible lies." 

"That's just it. Some of the things they say are true." He fell silent, as if he was waiting for her to say more. When she didn't, he raised his head. He swore when he bumped the edge of the table. "I must have hit that thing five thousand times. More." 

"How long have you been here?" 

"I don't know. I was . . . out of it. It was so hot, before. I could hardly breathe." 

"Do you remember-?" She wanted to ask about his eye, but she didn't know what to say. She was afraid for him. He didn't seem very well. 

"Remember what?" 

She took a deep breath. "Jess, I have something to tell you." 

He tensed, inhaling sharply. 

She looked into his good eye. "You have to be very brave." 

His face twisted. "Rory-" 

"I don't know how to say this, so I'm just going to say it." 

"Tell me," he said, through gritted teeth. "I can take it." 

"Oh, Jess," she said tragically. "They poked out your eye!" 

"What?!" Plainly that wasn't what he had been expecting. 

She shuddered, her gorge rising. "Your eye," she said faintly. "It's gone. And I think I squi--squished it into the floor!" She started to cry. 

He started to laugh. 

She was astonished. "I don't see what's so funny about it! It's--Jess, it's your eye! Oh, you're in shock . . . ." 

"Ow! Dammit!" He'd hit his head on the table again. But he was still laughing. 

"Jess?" She decided that he had lost his mind. She had to get him to a doctor! She started to work her fingers under the tape, to untie him. 

"Oh," he said. "Don't do that." 

"What?" 

"Rory, they never poked out my eye." 

"Jess, I'm so, so sorry, but it's gone." 

"They did a lot of things-" He turned his face, making a funny sort of hiccup. "Poking out my eye is not one of them." 

"But I can't see it! There's nothing there!" 

"I can feel it. I'm moving it back and forth." 

"Phantom . . . phantom sensations. You just think you are." 

"I think it's glued shut- " 

"Oh, God," she said weakly. 

"Rory, I'm okay. Get it open for me." 

"I can't! I'll hurt you!" She was sure that he was wrong. 

"Blood--my forehead bled and gummed it up. That's all. Don't be so scared, Rory. Just pull up my eyelid, and you'll see." 

"Please don't make me touch it!" 

"Rory-" 

"I'll untie you, and you can do it!" 

"Don't untie me!" 

"What?" 

"Do what I tell you!" His voice softened. "Trust me, okay? Please?" 

Holding her breath, Rory reached out tentatively, with the tip of her finger. She was fully expecting to arrive at his eye socket and meet no resistance. She was certain her finger would proceed on, and despite her recent decision not to do so anymore, she would faint. The grandest of swoons, it would be the swoon to end all swoons--a hundred year coma. Her dark prince wouldn't even be able to wake her with a kiss, because he was currently tied to a table. _I should have untied him first_, she thought. _I sure won't be able to do it from my coma._

She gasped when she felt it, the convex bulge of his eyeball under the swollen eyelid. Jess winced. "I'm okay. Keep going." 

She tugged on his eyelid, but it was stuck. She took the hem of her skirt, and wet it on her tongue. She used that to dab at his eye. She pulled gently on his eyelashes, and finally got his eye open. "Oh," she whispered. "I couldn't see it. It's so dark. I knew you. I _knew_ you. But I could hardly _see_ you." Spent, she stopped babbling. She didn't know what she was trying to say. She put her head on his chest. His heart throbbed under her ear, and she wondered if maybe he hadn't been so sure. 

She was so bone-weary, and taped up the way he was, he made a perfect seat for her. A little bewildered, she felt heat gathering in the place her legs met. She shifted uneasily, trying to make it go away. She had a thought that was upsetting: What did _he_ think about, when he saw her tied up like this? Did it make him feel sexy? And far away: _He likes it when I'm helpless_.   
  
She shuddered. She felt like a bag of broken mirrors--in a minute she was going to start hyperventilating. She had to stop obsessing about the things he thought quietly, in the dark and private corners of his mind, and start taking control of her own feelings. Truthfully, she wasn't certain if it was proper for her to feel anything at all. After everything that had happened, it was disturbing. She wondered if perhaps she should take some time to think about what she wanted to feel, and when. Or maybe not take any time, and never think about those things again, and do everything in her power to cut herself off from all of that, because it would be so much safer. How could she enjoy it after it had been forced upon her, and used as a threat, to scare her? It didn't make sense! But wouldn't that be unfair? To her? She had only just started to explore.   
  
It was much too complicated to figure out. Best just to put it out of her mind. _Thus conscience does make cowards of us all_, she thought, surprising herself at the inappropriateness; she had been thinking of sex, not--she swallowed--suicide. She looked into Jess's face, feeling raw and naked. _And thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied over with the pale cast of thought . . . I thought he was dead . . . I did think about killing myself . . . ._   
  
Troubled, she wondered if he knew what she was thinking. Belatedly, she realized he must, or part of it, anyway. She tensed, and looked down at his lap. "Oh," she said. Her pulse quickened.   
  
"It's a reflex," he whispered. 

Embarrassed, she turned her head. No, she absolutely wasn't ready to deal with the implications of _that_, not even to comfort him when he had been so badly abused. Her chest sore, she drew in a shaky breath. She couldn't meet his eyes. "Let's get you out of all this," she mumbled, meaning the tape. 

"Leave it. It will only make him mad." 

"But, Jess-" 

"You--I don't know what to tell you. You can't stop him. But just don't give him an excuse, either." His voice was so tired. He seemed to have given up, and out of everything that had happened, that was the scariest. 

"What are you talking about? I'm going to untie you!" 

He shook his head. "Rory, no. I can't beat them. _I can't._ And when they come back, if they find me untied . . . holding your safety over my head . . . I won't be able to--they're just going to kick the shit out of me some more. And they'll--it'll be _you_ they--they-" 

"We're hardly going to sit here and wait for them to come back!" 

"What are you talking about?" 

"What are _you_ talking about?" 

"Rory, I don't know what his game is now, but he must have put you here for a reason." His voice rose sharply. "Oh, God! He's going to rape you in front of me!" 

"Stop that!" she snapped. "And be quiet! There are people out there!" 

"People? What people?" Rory covered his mouth. Impatiently, he turned his head. "What do I care if there are people out there?" 

"Please," she begged. "We have to be _quiet_!" 

"It doesn't matter if we're quiet. It's not like they _care_." He sighed harshly. "I just wish I knew what he was planning. It was bad enough to have to listen to him describe in loving detail all the ways he hurt you . . . but to have to _watch_ . . . I'll go crazy." 

"They never hurt me," she said. "They--they fed me peanut butter and scrambled eggs. And orange juice. I asked Buddy Hartzke for coffee, but he wouldn't give it to me. He's so stupid! He wanted me to drink beer!" 

"Coffee?" He blinked. "Beer?" 

"It doesn't matter," she said. 

"They made you drink beer?" He sounded worried. 

"They didn't make me do anything." 

He gave her a look, and she knew she hadn't heard the last of that. "If you say so." 

"I _do_ say so." 

"I don't think I've had anything to drink," he said, sounding uncertain. "I don't remember the last time . . . was it in the car? You had a coffee . . . no, you had a Coke, and you fainted. _You had a Coke and you fainted!_ And I thought: 'What have I done? She's so delicate. I can never take care of her!'" 

"Did you think the Hartzke brothers could take better care of me?" she said angrily. 

"What?" 

"Anyway, it wasn't a Coke. It was a Jolt Cola." 

"Excuse me?" 

"I'm not that delicate," she said. "Trust me." 

"Rosefrail and fair," he quoted. "And look what I've done to you. Ah, Jesus--why did he lock you up in here? What is he planning?" 

"Wait a minute, wait a minute! I think we're talking at cross purposes, here. They don't know where I am. Len Hartzke threw me in the basement and forgot about me." 

"What do you mean, he threw you in the basement?" 

"Never mind that," she said quickly. "The point is, _I'm_ the one who came in here. And we're both going to leave. Together." 

"It's locked," he said. "I heard them lock it." 

"I found another way," she said. 

"Jesus! What the hell are we sitting around for?" 

"That's what I've been _trying_ to tell you! Stop being such a bossy smartass." She slid off his legs. 

"Cut me loose," he said. "Use the knife. Do you–?" There was a noise at the other end of the shed, and he broke off. "Oh,shit." 

"_No_," Rory moaned.   
  
Outside the shed, there was a voice. "...check it out." Rory and Jess exchanged a glance. Both of them recognized Len Hartzke. 

"Can you get back out?" Jess whispered. 

Rory shook her head. The hole was right across from the door, and anyway, she was frozen in place.   
  
"Rory? Rory!" 

"Bats." That was Buddy Hartzke. "Mice." 

She started to shake. 

"Rory!" Jess hissed. 

She flinched. "Nuh." 

"You can't sit there! For fuck's sake, hide!"   
  
Slowly, Rory turned her face to Jess. Her eyes were unfocused. _He's not gagged anymore, _she thought. Her forehead creased. There was the scrape of a key in a padlock. Clumsily, she felt around on the floor, and found the tape. She couldn't put it back on him. It was all stuck together. She looked at it stupidly. 

"Raccoons," Buddy was saying. "Skunks, tree sloths . . . " 

Len said something Rory couldn't make out, and her stomach churned. She could tell by the tone of his voice that he was angry. 

"Baby," Jess was whispering. "I'm begging you. Get by the door. When they come in, you run out. Run as fast as you can. Please . . . please? Do it for me?" 

She could hardly hear him. She took the tape and smoothed it out on her knee. _He's not gagged anymore_, she thought. _They're really not that stupid_. 

The door swung out. A white bull's-eye materialized on the opposite wall, and tracked down to the floor. Len Hartzke stepped into the shed. 

"Is he dead yet?" Buddy Hartzke sounded hopeful. 

"No." 

Rory opened her eyes a crack. She could see light. It seemed Len Hartzke was shining a flashlight in Jess's face. There was a ripping noise. She couldn't tell what it was, but it made her incredibly anxious. 

"Put it over his nose," Buddy said. He coughed. "A couple of minutes, and we won't have to worry about him anymore." 

"He's out," Len said, sounding irritated. 

"He kicked _something_." 

"This fell off the pile," Len said. There was the sound of something heavy sliding across the floor. "You didn't stack it right." 

"Oh, right," Buddy said. "It's my fault everyone wants to hang around the shed on the night we happen to have a guy tied up in it." 

"He's _out_." Len was definite. He cleared his throat and coughed, a harsh bark. "I don't know if he's gonna wake up again." 

"Well, good," said Buddy. 

"I wanted to keep him. For a while." 

Buddy sniffed. "How hard is it to make a fifteen-year-old girl do what you want? Smack, smack, she does it." He made an icky sound, and spat. Rory bit her lip. She hoped he hadn't been aiming at Jess. 

"It won't take long to grind her down," Len said. 

"It might be too cold for her," Buddy said. "She didn't look good." 

"It's supposed to be cold," Len said. 

"I'm just saying, if you want to keep her-" 

"I am keeping her." 

"You might need to feed her. Give her a blanket." 

"No. And if I catch you doing that, I'm going to be pissed." 

"I'm not. I won't." 

"It would defeat the purpose of it, if you gave her blanket." 

"What about a sandwich?" 

"She can have a sandwich when she starts to behave!" 

"Oh," said Buddy. "See, I didn't understand that." 

"She's just a scared little rabbit." 

"Maybe she's a scared little kangaroo." Buddy coughed again, but this time it sounded like he was trying not to laugh. 

"I'll bring her out here tomorrow. She can take a good look at this piece of shit, and understand the repercussions-" 

Buddy interrupted. "I know. And that's one plan. But the longer he's here . . . and with everything falling apart . . . ." 

"Everything is not falling apart!" 

"I just think keeping him is . . . _impractical_." 

"Impractical?" 

"Yes," said Buddy. 

"I didn't think you knew that word." 

"I know lots of things," Buddy said. 

His words seemed to expand, filling the shed. Rory, who was hunched under the tarp with her hip pressed against the woodpile, almost wanted to burst out of her hiding place and put an end to what she was halfway convinced was an elaborate ruse to play with her head. Her rib cage was imploding. She wasn't sure she could control herself, and the tension was unbearable. It was like she was on top of a tall building, afraid she would somehow be compelled to throw herself off, even though she didn't want to. _He knows_, she thought. _He knows I'm here!_

There was a tiny noise--someone patting through his pockets?--and the snikt of a Zippo lighter. Rory smelled tobacco, and heard someone sigh out a lung full of smoke.   
  
"You know jack shit," Len Hartzke said, and Rory heard him take another long draw on his cigarette. 

"I know that kangaroos can choose the sex of their offspring." 

"You're _not_ getting a kangaroo." 

"I know that kangaroos always have a boy baby first, and then a girl." 

"That's _fascinating_." 

"I know you should let me take care of this right now. It would take me two seconds." 

_Two seconds_, thought Rory, frowning. 

Len Hartzke made a noise, it might have been agreement, it might just have been a noise. Rory heard him puff on his cigarette. She squinted, but she couldn't see anything through the tarp but the flashlight, and another pin prick of light. "_Later_," Len Hartzke said, and his voice was dreadful with grim joy. There was the most terrible smell. 

"They won't come back, not right away," she whispered, more to reassure herself than anything else. She had no idea what they would or wouldn't do. She ripped away the new gag. Just before the Hartzkes had come into the shed, she had stuck the old gag to Jess's chest, hoping they would think it had fallen off. Sliding in beside the woodpile, she had pulled a corner of the tarp over herself. If they had really looked, if they had turned the flashlight her direction, they would have seen her. 

Jess gasped. He tipped his head back, hitting the edge of the table. He was breathing hard. "Oh, fuck," he moaned. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." 

"Are you okay?" 

"No! Get me the fuck out of here!" His whole body was shaking. "Cut me loose. Do you still have the knife?" 

"No," she said. "Oh! I totally forgot! I have something else." She slipped off her saddle shoe, and felt around in the heel. She showed him the razor blade. "Pull your wrists apart, as far as you can." 

She got under the table, and lay down on her belly. When her eyes adjusted, and she was sure what to cut and what not to cut, she began to slice through the tape. The blade was still sharp. She had hardly used it at all, and it was no worse for having lived in her shoe for a day. The tape split easily under the fine, sharp edge. After a while, she was able to peel it away from his wrists. 

Jess still couldn't move; he was firmly secured to the table leg. Rory crawled out from under the work bench, and began to saw on the tape that bound his arms. It was hard not to cut him. There was a lot of tape. It was really stuck to him, to his shirt, to his skin, and then there was the table. It was like a great, big spider web. Finally, Jess threw himself forward, swearing under his breath. The tape stretched and ripped. With her help, he squirmed under it and out of his T-shirt, and was free of the table. He sat up, panting, while Rory separated his shirt from the tape. She gave it back to him, and he put it on. He held out his hand. "Give it here."   
  
Rory handed over the blade, and he freed his knees and ankles. After that, he didn't seem to know what to do with the razor. She motioned for it. "It's mine. I'm keeping it." 

He looked at her strangely, but passed it back. 

She pressed the blade down in the heel of her shoe. "Does it hurt very much?" she asked, as she tied her shoelace.   
  
His hand went to his collar bone, although he stopped short of actually touching the burn. "Yeah. But I'm not going to think about it." 

She balled up some loose tape, and flicked it into a dark corner. "You must have tre-tremendous force of will. I don't know how you did it. To be able to sit there and take it-" She shut up abruptly, because she sounded like an idiot. 

There was a change, like a drop in barometric pressure. She looked up to see what it was, and found that Jess was staring at her. There was something odd about his posture. He could have been a complete stranger. 

"Jess?" she said uncertainly. She sat back on her heels. 

He grabbed her. Rory was so startled, she almost yelled. She actually tried to fight him off as he pulled her into a tight embrace. Striking his chest with her fists, she squirmed, panting. He caught her wrists and folded them behind her back, pinning them with one hand. He put his other hand to the back of her neck. She made a noise, trying to turn her head. He kissed and kissed her, driving his tongue deep into her mouth. Rory was shocked out of herself, and when she came back, she was hanging limp in his arms. Jess had her face pressed to his chest. He didn't seem to be aware that she had been away. He was whispering in her ear, and she couldn't follow any of it, it was just nonsense. 

Stirring, she asked, "Can I get up now?" He let her go. She crawled away from him. She turned her head and coughed into her hand. 

"I thought I was never going to see you again." He looked away, fingering the cut on his forehead. "I had to . . . touch you, taste you. I had to know that you were real." 

_ No_, thought Rory. _They made you feel small_. Without looking at him, she said, "I don't care." 

"It won't happen again." 

She crossed her arms over her bare stomach, hugging herself. "That's what you said the last time. I don't care. Everyone else did it. Why shouldn't you have your turn?" 

His face creased, and he was instantly miserable. He bent his head. 

Rory looked down, too. She squinted, noticing something for the first time--something that confused her. Jess lifted his head to meet her eyes, and it all fell away: the cold arrogance, the wry intelligence, the sharpness he used to mask himself from the world. He looked at her with his naked face, and her eyes widened. She completely forgot what had just happened. She wanted to surge forward to meet that boy. He was so elusive. She had only caught glimpses of him before, and she desperately wanted to know him. _I really do love him_, she thought, and it _hurt_, it felt like drowning. 

Jess turned his back on her. He got up on his knees. He fumbled at his waist. She heard him zip his zipper, buckle his belt. He turned his head to the side, not looking at her, waiting. She stared at his profile, feeling a pang somewhere deep inside. She wanted to reach out, to take him in her arms, to murmur soft words over his hurts. She would have talked and talked, and if he had asked her questions _then_, she would have answered. She would have told him so many things. 

She turned her back, to give him privacy. It seemed to be what he wanted. She sat quietly, with her hands in her lap. She heard him turn, and still she waited. She jumped when he put his hand between her shoulder blades. "What happened to your blouse?" he whispered. She bent her head. So that was the way it was going to be. 

"It doesn't matter," she said tiredly. "It's back in the house. I left it there." 

"Ah, Christ. It just gets worse and worse." He reached over his shoulder and gathered a handful of his shirt at the nape of his neck. In that peculiar way men had of taking off their shirts, he started to pull it over his head. 

She touched his arm. "It's cold. You're going to need it." 

"It's not a debatable issue," he snapped. "You're taking it." 

"I don't want your smelly old shirt." She wanted him to keep it. 

"Okay, why don't you be as difficult as you can possibly be?" 

"Fine," she said. "I will." 

He sighed. "Did you see my jacket? Is it here? I don't remember when I had it last." 

"I can hardly see, Jess. Remember me? I'm the one who thought your eye was poked out." 

"Flashlight." He turned. "They left the flashlight." He snagged it off the workbench. It was a Mini Mag Lite. He put his hand in front of the light and pointed it at the floor. When he turned it on, his fingers were a pinkish orange, and Rory shivered. 

"Your wound. What's happening with your wound?" 

"We're going to have a talk about that," he said. "But not now. There it is!" He'd found his jacket in the corner, beside the wad of tape. He turned off the flashlight, and Rory, who'd been looking directly at it, was immediately blind. She was startled when he took her hand and fed it into the sleeve of the jacket. He stuffed her other arm in, and pulled it on her shoulders. When he drew it over her breasts, she shrugged away. 

"I don't feel well," she whispered.   
  
His voice rough, he said, "Are you hurt? They're so . . . and you're so small. Are you . . . bleeding?" 

"No." She shifted uncomfortably. "I'm just sleepy. I want to know what the squishy thing was." She took the flashlight from him. He made a warning noise, and she rolled her eyes, putting her hand over the light. "This way," she whispered. She began to crawl back down the shed. 

"I'm not sure I can fit through there," he said doubtfully. 

"There aren't a whole lot of options. Make yourself fit." 

"All right. I'll hold the board, and you go." Jess was working his arms, rolling his head on his neck. Rory knew he had to be sore--really, really sore--but she was getting a bad vibe from him. He was antsy, and he kept swallowing, like he had a bad taste in his mouth. It was like he was holding it together by a very slim thread, and if he didn't get out soon, he was going to go berserk. 

"No, I'll hold it, and you go." 

"If I get stuck, you'll be trapped in here. You go first." 

"You're going first. It will be easier to push you than pull you." 

"I want to make sure you get out," he said.   
  
"Do what I tell you," she snapped. 

"Yes, ma'am." Now he sounded amused, and that made her angry. She felt that as long as she was stuck with directing the rescue operation, he shouldn't snicker at her. When he wanted to take charge--_like he was supposed to_, she couldn't help thinking--he could laugh it up as much as he wanted. 

Jess took the little flashlight from her, and stuffed it in his back pocket. "What was all that stuff about kangaroos?" 

Rory brushed her nose with the back of her hand. "I'm sure I have absolutely no idea." 

"But-" 

She put a finger to his lips. "And be very, very quiet." 

He took her hand, unfolding the rest of her fingers. He looked into her eyes, and after a moment, she nodded. He kissed the back of her hand, turned it over, and kissed the palm as well. "I-" 

She leaned forward. He breathed deeply, and she could tell he would have liked to take her in his arms. "As quietly quiet as humanly possible," she whispered in his ear.   
  


He did get stuck; his shoulders were too big. She turned around and leaned on him, shoving with her feet. When he made it through, he pulled aside the board from the outside. She got down on her stomach. When she was halfway out, he whispered urgently, and had her roll over. He caught her under the arms, and pulled her the rest of the way. They stood with their backs to the shed. Jess clutched her sleeve, taking deep breaths like a free diver. Rory watched him out of the corner of her eye. She was alarmed. He was very unsteady.   
  
She had to _make_ him let go of her. Gesturing for him to wait, she crept to the edge of the building and peered around. There was no one there. She rejoined him, and he caught her wrist. Hissing in pain, she peeled away his fingers. She held her wrist to his face, turning her hand to show him that it was sore. He nodded that he understood. "Which way?" she mouthed. 

He ducked his head, pointing. There was a field of tall grass, and off in the distance, a stand of trees. Rory looked up at him, unhappy. It wasn't that far, but it seemed a long way to go without cover, especially with people milling in and out of the house. "Oh, God, let's run for it." 

He pulled her close and whispered in her ear. "I can't."   
  
She touched his chest. His heart beat under her hand, and the rhythm seeped in through her fingers. It flowed up her arm, swirled around her brain, and dove into her breast. It made her rise up on her toes and kiss him on the lips. Something passed through her lips, and she breathed it into him. She felt him tremble. 

"Sweet Rory," he murmured, his soft voice brushing her lips. He breathed, and gave her a hug. "Rosefrail and fair." He kissed the top of her head. 

Hand in hand in the moonlight, they set out across the field.   
  


They picked their way through coarse, tufted grass that came up past her waist. Rory waited impatiently for the transfer of leadership. She couldn't imagine Jess being in any situation that he wasn't scrambling to take charge of, and she was ready to surrender and follow his lead. She was very tired, and feeling quite stupid. The ground was wet, squelching underfoot, and she was cold and uncomfortable. She wanted--no, she needed--a sign that he was at least a little bit confident about where they were going, and what came next. They were walking on a diagonal, trying to keep the shed between them and the house, but the terrain was uneven, and they couldn't proceed in a direct line. Sometimes, they had to make small detours. Frequently she checked over her shoulder, to make sure no one came out and noticed them. Twice, she clutched his arm and drew him down in the grass to hide. 

Nothing definitive happened. There had not yet been a moment she could point to, even after the fact, and say: That was it, that was when he took charge. In fact, Jess seemed weak and tired himself. He was having trouble keeping his footing, and every time he stumbled, she stumbled too. He was holding her hand--he wouldn't let go. She thought he was afraid of losing her in the dark, although it seemed he had better night vision than she, for he did point out certain obstacles, cautioning her. Maybe it was as simple as the fact that he was a little bit taller, and could see more. In any event, it gave her a small measure of warmth, and she thought, _He's going to be all right. Everything is going to be all right. Thank God._ She took another step and sank. Water poured into her shoes. She looked up at him, her eyes wide. "It's freezing, it's freezing!" 

"I know." 

"My feet are stuck!" 

"_I know_." There was a big sucking noise, and he pulled himself loose. 

Rory struggled, but wasn't able to free her feet. She couldn't lift them out of the mud. She couldn't move! Feeling trapped, she began to pant. "I can't stand it! Help me!" 

"Quiet," he said sharply. "I'm not going to leave you there." 

"Oh, don't leave me!" 

"Rory, jeez. Of course I won't leave you." He got an arm around her waist and another under the shelf of her ass. She bit her lip. Her butt was really sore. She put her arms around his neck, and he bit_ his _lip, mostly likely because she was squeezed up against his burn. He groaned, heaving, and dragged her free. His laughter was soft, his mouth right against her ear. "I pulled you right out of your shoes." 

"Put me down," she whispered, subdued now, and embarrassed by her silliness. "My feet are already wet." 

She shivered in her stocking feet, while he fetched her shoes. He slapped the soles together, and at the noise of it, they both tensed. They turned to look at the house. "We have to be serious about being quiet," he whispered. He turned over her shoes, pouring out the mud. "Not too much further." He pointed. "See those trees?" She looked over her shoulder. When she turned back to him, he had her saddle shoes dangling from one hand. He was wiping his other hand on the seat of his pants. He offered her the shoes, asking, "Would you like to try these, miss? I think they're your size." 

"Thank you," she said meekly. 

"Maybe after the trees, it'll be easier. Not so boggy." 

She held onto his arm as she stepped into her shoes. "You crossed this field?" she asked. Surreptitiously, she confirmed her suspicion, sliding a finger into her heel. Yep, he had stolen her razor blade. Either that, or he had dumped it out with the mud. She sighed. 

"No way," he replied. "You'd never come this way. Unless you wanted to go a-frog huntin.' When we get to the treeline, we have to backtrack, and line up with the house." 

"I don't want to go back toward the house!" 

"Shhh! Look, anything could be out there." He waved a hand in the direction of the woods. "And I'm not exactly Joe Wilderness. I have a picture in my mind of where the car is, but I need the house to get situated." 

They started to walk, more carefully this time. "Where's the car?" 

"There's an old service road. From when there was logging, or whatever. We take that to another road, and shoot over to the Garden State Parkway." 

"Sounds very zig zaggy," she said. 

"All you have to do is drive," he said. "Drive away." 

"Me?" 

"We," he said tiredly. "I meant to say 'we.'" 

"Oh." 

They pushed their way through a dense stand of straight trees, holding their arms up to protect their faces. Little cones crunched under their feet, and branches pulled Rory's hair and plucked at her skirt. The stems were thick with leaves that overlapped like scales, and Rory and Jess were enveloped by the rich scent of cedar. He shoved up a thick branch, and she walked under his arm, emerging in a small clearing where the ground was firm and sandy. Jess sighed in fatigue, sinking to his knees. 

"I don't think that's such a good idea!" Rory's voice was almost shrill. She was disoriented. The first whiff of cedar had sent a thousand memories tumbling through her head, chief among them linen chests and crisp white sheets, and beds a person could crawl into and sleep all night, unmolested. "I think we should keep going." 

"I need a second." 

"Please, get up!" She was afraid to sit. If she sat, she might never get up again. Jess's shoulders convulsed, and he put his hands on the ground, hanging his head. "Jess?" 

"My stomach," he said tersely. His teeth were clenched. 

"Are you going to be sick?" 

"No." 

"Do you want me to look at your burn? Do something?" She had no idea what. 

"_No_." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I need--I want to lay some things out for you. It's very important that you-" He took a deep breath, and looked up at her. "Rory, you rescued me. Thank you for doing that." 

"Oh," she said. "Anytime." 

"I told you to run. I didn't mean to be cryptic, but there was no other way. Didn't you understand?" 

"I understood," she said in a small voice. "I was looking for you. Don't be mad." 

"It was a whole day," he said bleakly. "You were with them for a whole day." 

"They were busy. They had things to do. They didn't pay any attention to me." 

"Come here." He patted the ground in front of him.   
  
Rory knelt in front of him. Tilting her head to the side, she said, "I--I have a confession to make." 

Jess grew very still. He didn't look at her. In a low voice, he said, "All right." 

"I'm so ashamed," she whispered. 

"Ashamed of what?" 

"I gave up on you." 

"What?" 

"I nearly left you, Jess. _I nearly left you behind_!" 

Jess flexed his shoulders, letting out a hard breath. "I should have been a fighter pilot." 

"What?" 

"I can kind of see in the dark." 

Rory hugged herself. "I suppose it's not too late. I can't really imagine you in that kind of life, but I guess you're the right height for the cockpit-" There was a small movement, and Jess pointed the flashlight at her. Rory reared back, covering her face with her hands. "My eyes! Put it away!" 

"Okay, Okay." The light went away. "All gone." 

Rory looked up. "Why did you do that?!" 

Jess touched her lip with the tip of his finger. "Who did this to you?" 

"Len Hartzke," she whispered. "He was mad." 

"And this?" He touched her cheek. 

She looked up at him. "Does it matter?" 

He touched her jaw. "What about this?" 

She drew a breath in through her teeth, turning her head. "Buh–Buddy Hartzke? Was it there when you found me in the--the bedroom?" The corner of her eye twitched. Something in her stomach folded in on itself, and folded again. "Never mind. I could care less." There was a lump in her throat. She hitched in a breath, and forced herself to relax. "They all kind of hit me a little bit. I don't care." 

Indicating the underbrush with his side of his hand, Jess said, "That's the way. Through there. Line up with the house. It's a sharp left, then north west." 

"Oh," she said, a little confused by the new topic. "Okay." 

"North _west_." 

"Uh-huh." 

"Don't blunder into a cranberry bog." 

"Cranberry bog!" 

"I made a trail for you." 

"You made a trail?" she said skeptically. 

"I ripped up my bandage, and tied pieces of it to the bushes." 

"Oh. Cool." 

"I was inspired by the patron saint of extreme desperation. I don't know if you'll even see it, but hopefully . . . ." He sighed, sounding very tired. "Anyway, the first time, it didn't seem that far. There's a sort of path. Don't use it--that's what the Hartzkes use. If you walk in more or less a straight line, kind of along the path, but not on it, you should hit the service road, and then you can start looking for the car." 

"What are you talking about? Where are you going?" 

"I'm not. I-" 

She cut him off, afraid of the answer. "Where are we? Are we even in New Jersey anymore?" 

"Oh, it's called . . . something. The Pine Barrens? It's just trees. Parkland. Wetland, I guess you'd call it." 

"I don't understand. The Hartzke brothers live in a park?" 

"No, I think it's all mixed together. State and private." He gestured in the direction of the house. "I guess they're not squatting." 

"No. They own that land." He looked at her, and she said, "Buddy Hartzke told me." 

"He talked to you? About what?" 

"Oh, I forget. Stupid things. Nothing important." 

"I can't stand to think of you having to _talk_ to them. Having to make desperate conversation with the psychos who were keeping you captive . . . ." 

"Please." She shivered, because that was exactly what it had been like. To change the subject, she asked, "But where is this? It seemed so far- " 

He shrugged. "We're just a ways down the coast." 

"Okay," she said doubtfully. 

"Are you paying attention to me? Can I tell you some things?" 

"Yes." 

He put his hand to his forehead. "Rory, I-" 

"What if there are people in the woods? You said they had bonfires." 

"I don't think that's what they're doing. They seem to be hanging around the house." 

"But, what if?" 

He sighed. "We hide. I don't know. Rory-" 

"When they notice we're gone, will they check this way first, or will they go out the front? That was the way we drove in when--when they brought me here. Which way would they think we went?" 

"_I don't know_. They might split up, and check everything." 

"What if they decide, okay, enough is enough, let them go?" 

"No, Rory. They're not going to decide that." 

She fell silent, her shoulders tight, her heart fluttering like a tiny, frantic bird. Jess pulled her into his arms. She stiffened, then allowed herself to settle against his chest. 

"You knew that," he whispered into her hair. "He's never going to let you go. It's become this big thing, and he's crazy." 

"No," she said. "Shush." 

"Listen to me. No--listen. Whatever happens, I want you to keep going. No, Rory, sit--listen. If they catch you, they are going to keep you for a long time, and it will get very ugly." 

"Let me up," she whispered. 

"They will keep you until they use you up." 

She shook her head. "Stop talking about it." 

"You can't go to pieces just because I'm here." 

"I can't breathe." 

"We don't have time for--for schoolgirl histrionics. You should have run when you had the chance." 

"Let me up," she gasped, and squirmed away. "Schoolgirl histrionics! You think you're so smart! I know things, too, you know! Tying you up so they could gloat over you is very James Bond-y, but I just don't think they would have kept you for very long, once I was out of the picture!" She stopped, every nerve in her body stripped bare and zinging. _Two seconds_, she thought. _Two seconds_! She put her hand to her chest. "Don't tell me I did the wrong thing! I can't bear it if you say so!" 

"I wanted you to be safe. I said you would be, and you never were. He said disgusting, dirty things about you, Rory." He reached for her hand, but she backed away. 

"Please," she whispered. 

"I'm sorry." 

"I know. You're just so sorry about everything." 

"I am." 

"_I know_. I really do. You don't have to keep saying it!" 

With a groan, he got to his feet. "I'm trying to explain something to you." He put his hand to his forehead, making a face. "I don't feel well, Rory. I'm afraid I won't be able to help you very much." His hand drifted to his side. "I'm trying to tell you that if I can't go on--you have to forget about me, and keep going." 

"Let's walk and talk," she said quickly. 

"Dammit! Can't you be practical?" 

"Nope. Remember at the end of _Brazil_, when her lover died in the ocean, and she decided to curl up beside him and die, too?" 

He looked confused. "At the end of _Brazil_, didn't he die in the torture chamber?" 

She shuddered. "John Updike's _Brazil_!" 

He thought for a second. "Is that the one about the guy and the rich girl?" 

She sighed impatiently. "Yes!" 

"Updike is prolific!" 

"I know!" 

He made a noise, pulling the neck of his T-shirt away from the burn. "Didn't she find out she didn't have the power to will herself to die?" 

"That's not the point! If you fall down and _refuse_ to get up, I'm just going to sit there like a dummy, so you better not fall down!" 

"Oh, for Christ's sake! You're impossible!" 

"No, you are!" She turned on her heel, prepared to stalk away. Over her shoulder, she inquired acidly, "Are you coming?" 

"That's the wrong way. Come on." 

Rory knew that Jess was injured. She knew that he was tired. It wouldn't have been exactly fair to say that he was being just a titch moody too, but as they trudged through crooked pitch pines, and strained, pulling themselves loose from broad leaf vines with spiral tendrils, he was sort of showcasing himself at his monosyllabic best. He wasn't even trying to help her anymore, to keep branches away from her face, or hold her hand, and this was the guy who had once upon a time held her hair while she vomited. Finally, she fell in line behind him. She followed his back with her head bent, leaving Jess to play Chingachgook all by himself. Fervently, she hoped he knew where he was going. There was no clear path. The trees had twisted needles, and some of the vines had thorns.   
  
There was a low whistle of wind, and that made it colder than it would have been otherwise. Rory was breathing heavily. She found it hard going. It was difficult to place her feet. The ground was littered with twigs, and there were fat pine cones that spun away rattling when she kicked them. The twigs popped and cracked under her weight, and Jess was panting, too. With her occasional sniffles, and his grunts of 'Fuck!' and 'Crap!' they might as well have been towing some Macy's balloons and a marching band. 

Rory was quite turned around. There had been too many places where there was windfall, or the trees grew too thick to pass, and the two of them had been forced to change direction and stray rather far a field. Jess was using the flashlight, but only sparingly--he would shine it ahead, and almost immediately click it off. Rory hoped he was using those brief flashes to take mental pictures and orient himself. She had totally lost track of the house. 

Far away, the stars glittered coldly, and Rory was struck by how alien and forbidding the woods seemed to her. There could be anything out there. Anything at all. She was suddenly lonely, and very afraid. She reached for Jess, and caught the back of his belt. She twisted her hand under it, hanging on for dear life. 

Jess jumped. "What happened?" He half turned so he could see her. 

She couldn't express it, and anyhow, she didn't want to say that she had needed something intangible, a touch, a connection, because she felt dwarfed--oppressed by the dark wilderness that represented their hard-won freedom. Instead she asked, "Who _is_ the patron saint of desperation?" 

"Saint Jude." He went forward, shoving a branch out of the way. 

She followed. "Oh." 

"He's also the patron saint of lost causes. And impossible causes." 

"Sheesh." Her nose was dripping. She glanced at his back, and wiped it on her sleeve. He had already told her she could do it, but that didn't make it any less uncouth. 

"Rory are you pregnant?" 

"What?!" She stopped abruptly, and the sharp drag on his belt made him double over in pain. 

"Shit!" 

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hurt you!" 

"If we're going to be joined at the hip, you have to keep pace." 

"Excuse me," she said snippily, and extracted her hand. 

"So?" 

"Are you serious? Is that a serious question? I can't believe--that's such a stupid question, Jess. You must have a head injury." She held up two fingers. "How many fingers?" 

"The whole time, no matter how much Len was hurting me, I was thinking, 'He's lying, he's lying--I gave her the knife, she got away.' And now I find out that you _were_ there, and it's all true!" 

"What?" 

"I don't know if you meant it when you said you loved me . . . ." 

"Oh," she whispered. 

"But_ I_ love you. That's one thing that is true. And I've never even been _with_ you. Him--he doesn't love you! He wants to tie you up, and keep you like a prisoner! He wants you like a dead butterfly pinned to a card. Under glass! And when he's sick of you, he'll rip off your wings!" 

Rory rocked back on her heels. She couldn't understand where all this was coming from, or why he was saying such awful things. She turned away, looking at a tall pine. She considered wrapping her arms around it, just to see what it would feel like. "Don't you think I get that?" It was hard to make her mouth form the words. "You're getting all worked up over nothing." 

"Nothing!" 

"Did you think I would fall in love with him?" She was so tired. She wished Jess would just shut up. She didn't want to talk about any of this; it was stupid. 

"Of course not." He sounded surprised. 

"You're the one who said I could hitch my wagon to another guy." 

"Oh, jeez," he moaned. 

"Did you think he was so magnetic and handsome and charming that I would actually _want_ to be chained up in his basement?" 

"I'm going to throw up," he whispered. 

"What is this about? Is this what you've been thinking, all this time?" 

"But, why did Buddy _say_ that?" It was almost a wail. "I had hours and hours with nothing to do but obsess on it." 

"He's cracked. He was just making trouble. Buddy Hartzke likes to say outrageous things--just to see how people react. He thinks it's funny." 

"You seem to have gotten to know him very well." His voice was stiff. 

Her heart sped up. Faintly, she said, "What are you accusing me of?" 

"I'm not accusing you of anything. I know you just did what you had to, to get by. It was beyond your control." 

Her head was spinning. Numbness started somewhere around her toes, and began to creep up her legs. Her knees went. It was in her stomach, her chest and throat. It settled between her eyes, and she shook her head, blinking. "Wha--what?"   
  
When he spoke again, his voice was low and scratchy. "Rory, when you were with them, if you decided . . . if there was a moment where you said to yourself, 'I'm just going to live through this,' and you did something, or you let something happen because you were scared and didn't think you could fight them--that's okay." 

"That's very big of you." Rory put her hand on the black bark of the tree trunk. She plucked at one of the low branches, running her hand along its length. She pulled away some of the needles. She put one in her mouth, and clamped it between her teeth. 

Behind her, she heard a sigh. "Before, you were upset because you didn't try to get away from Dean. Not fighting the Hartzkes-" 

She spat out the needle. "I did fight them!" 

"Did you have to?" 

"What?" 

"You said they never touched you." 

"Are you trying to trick me?" 

"They both have colds." 

"What?" 

"Len has a cold, and so does Buddy. So do you." 

"I do not!" 

"I'm just telling you what I know." 

Furious, she whirled around. "I was in the basement all day! It was freezing! I was lying on the dirt floor with my shirt open and my bra shoved up to here-" She choked, blinking back tears of frustration. "Oh! You bastard!" 

"It's only that I want to know how much to hate them." 

"Stop it! Stop trying to find things out! It's none of your business!" 

"And I want to know _who_ to hate for_ what_." 

"There is no way I could be pregnant! And even if I was--which I'm not!--I wouldn't even know it, yet! Good grief!" 

"Drop it," he said roughly. "I'm sorry I brought it up." 

"This is my theory about Buddy Hartzke, to the extent that I've thought about him at all, which is limited. You have a set of twins. Not only that, but they're blond. Everybody makes a big stink about them. 'Oh, look at the twins, they're so blond and cute.' Then you have a third kid, and everybody's, like, 'Huh. Whatever.' So, he does things to get attention. He's just wacky." 

"That's a very developed theory." 

"I came up with it off the top of my head! Stop pestering me!" 

There was dark silence, as bleak as a rolling fogbank. When Jess broke it, his voice was thick. "Don't you understand that it _hurts_ me?" 

"I know," she said vaguely. She was thinking about the trees. Generally, she liked trees. In the daylight, the Pine Barrens wouldn't be scary at all. Probably, they would be pretty amazing. And in the spring, there would be the most beautiful wildflowers. It was a shame they had to be here in the autumn. _Lady's Slippers_, she thought. _Azaleas_. "I--I never expected to be anywhere like that. With people like that. It was unforeseen." _Pitcher Plants_. _Orchids_. "I really don't know what to do about it." She tilted back her head, and regarded the black and glitter sky. _Star-flowers_, she thought. 

"I don't either." 

"But it's over, now." 

"I hope so," he said.   


~ * ~

To be continued . . .


	17. 17

17. 

Jess was getting weaker. Once again, the ground was wet, and the trees had momentarily opened on a field of ferns with wiry, curly fronds. It was easier going--infinitely preferable to being constantly picked at and flagellated by tree branches. Still, he was vague and clumsy, stumbling often. Climbing onto a rock as she drew abreast of him, Rory shot Jess a hard look. Typically, he was athletic. Strong and agile. He had the sort of natural grace she herself was completely lacking. Sighing tiredly, she realized he had never answered when she'd asked if he had a head injury. It was possible he didn't even know. _It shook when he laughed,_ she thought, _like a bowlful of jelly._ She blinked. Where had _that_ come from? 

_Athletic-_

Tilting her head, she sniffed the night air. Cigarette smoke. Cigarettes. She was sure of it. Was someone smoking? Was it Jess? She looked closer, squinting in the darkness. Jess was staring across the field, not talking for once. Even at a standstill, his breath was heavy. His posture was off, and although Rory was starting to get anxious, she spared a moment to feel bad for him. Since he had been stabbed, he had a tendency to curl inward, safeguarding his side. As someone who had done a great deal of flinching herself, Rory knew that existing in a prolonged cringe had to be exhausting for him. Her forehead creased. Now her hands were shaking. The smoke--where was it coming from? Was there someone else? Someone nearby? Should they hide?   
  
She smelled it again, and then she knew. It was a ghost of a smell, a scent memory. She could almost see the smoke drifting lazily to the plaster ceiling. Her stomach rolled over, and she had to clench her teeth to keep from gagging. Grease! There had been grease on the crumpled paper from the takeout place. Dust everywhere! She hated it when things were messy! Rory wrapped her arms around herself protectively. She was off balance. The shelf of rock was uneven, sloping away from a center ridge. 

_The boxing-_

They'd been backlit from the hall. It was loud light, spilling along their jaws and pushing between their arms and torsos in dazzling starbursts when they got up to go for beer. The light had _hurt_--she'd had to turn her face away. Remembering, Rory set her feet more firmly, trying to release the painful breath that was caught high in her chest. 

_The boxing match!_

She brushed her hair back from her face, wishing she had a headband, or a ponytail holder. "I'm cutting it _all_ off," she mumbled. It was coming to her now, in weird bits and pieces. The Hartzkes had been watching a boxing match. She had been tied up in the corner by the TV, watching but not watching them- 

_They had been watching her-_

She had been thinking: _What are they waiting for? Why don't they get it over with? _And the familiar refrain: _What's going on?_

The color commentary had been vivid. One of the announcers had done a bit called 'The Anatomy of the Uppercut,' explaining that a blow to the head caused the brain to slosh inside the skull like Jell-O. Rory swallowed queasily. How long had Jess been unconscious? How many times had he been hit? _Are his stitches infected?_ That final thought she tucked away quickly. _One crisis per customer, thank you._ "Jess!" He was just a few feet away, but she had to call out again, to get his attention.   
  
"Rory?" Jess turned to her, blank and impossible to read in the darkness. If he found it odd to see her perched on a rock, it didn't show. He seemed too dopey to care. Rory decided she needed to get the flashlight away from him, so she could peer into his eyes. First, though, she was going to test him. She knew if she peppered him with questions, he wouldn't get flustered, the way she did. He'd clam up. She coughed to clear her throat. "I can't get down." She held out her hand, standing very still.   
  
His brow furrowed. She knew him well enough, now. She saw it. She saw him make a guess. Her breath caught in her throat as he reached for her hand . . . and missed. He had guessed wrong. "How long?" she breathed. "How long have you been seeing two of everything?" 

"It comes and goes. I can see. I can see better than _you._" Grimacing, he pulled the neck of his T-shirt away from the cigarette burn. "Were you scamming me?" 

"It's your game." 

"My game?" he said tiredly. 

"If you can't get what you want directly, you always go in the back door." 

He groaned. "You should talk. I don't know if it's because you were raised in a fairytale or what, but you're like a princess sitting in the middle of a Rococo maze. Do you _get_ the path I have to walk just to reach you?" 

"Fine," she said, not at all bothered by the insult. At least he was still capable of rousing himself. "_Whatever. _ Have your little fantasies. Let's talk about the here and now. Jess, are you in trouble?" 

He touched his forehead. "My head hurts." 

"May I have the flashlight?" 

He looked away. "What do you need it for?" 

"Please?" 

"What for?" 

"I want to look at your eyes." 

"And I repeat: What for?" 

"Jess! To see!" 

"To see what? Rory, look." He held his arms away from his sides. "Am I walking?" 

"Not presently." 

_ "Rory."_

She sighed. "Yes." 

"Am I talking?" 

She stamped her foot in frustration. _"Yes."_

"Well okay, then." 

"At least let me look at the cut. Maybe I can-" 

He interrupted. "There's nothing you can do." 

"I--I could bandage it," she said. 

"With what?" 

Biting her lip, she plucked at her skirt. "Ah-" 

"No way." 

"Okay." She crossed her arms over her chest. "My--my-" She swallowed. "My bra?" she offered tentatively. 

Jess took a hasty step back. "Absolutely not!" He pointed at her. "Wear your own bra! If I'm going down, it's gonna be with a modicum of dignity!" 

"Jess!" she wailed. "You're scaring me!" She abandoned her resolution to refrain from pelting him with questions. "How hurt are you? Can't we do something to fix you? Oh, God! What did they do to you?!" 

"Keep your voice down!"   
  
He made a gesture with his hands, and Rory's mouth dried up. It had been a gesture of futility, of impotence. She coughed into her hand. When she could talk, she said: "I'm so worried. You look bad."   
  
"Thanks." His tone was wry. He stretched, wincing. His hand went to his side. "I'm worried, too. What's going to happen to you, if I can't-?" He let out a hard breath. "I tried to tell you, Rory, but you were too upset. You wouldn't listen." 

"I'm listening, now." 

He sighed. "Buddy took me out of the bedroom. There's a big blank. I don't remember getting hit . . . only waking up." He looked away, rubbing his wrists. "They beat on me off and on, and left me in the shed where it was so hot. I'm not doing so good." 

"I see." She pressed her lips together in a thin line. She knew she was getting _Version 1.0 - For Rory's Ears._

"Now you talk." 

Her heart sped up. _"No."_

He swore, and ran a hand across his face. "Rory, I have to know how hurt you are." 

She looked away, scratching her nose. "I'm not hurt at all." 

"Knock it off," he snapped. "I need to know what your injuries are, so I can take care of you." 

"That's not true." She crossed her arms over her chest again, hugging herself tight. "That's not why you want to know. You just want to know so you can be furious." 

"Rory," he said tiredly. "You should pile all the fucking fuel you can on my fury because it's the only thing that's giving me the energy to keep fucking walking." 

"I can't-" Rory looked up at the distant ink of night sky. It was freckled with pinpricks like shards of glass. She was aware that her mouth was open. Sometimes she could breathe through her nose, and sometimes she couldn't. The sky was full of cold, faraway light that was entirely unhelpful, and it vibrated, taunting her. She needed to see Jess properly. Talking to him without the visual clues she usually relied on was too difficult. She was having a hard time interpreting his emotions. She couldn't put herself back together, _and_ worry about his anger. What if he decided to do something rash? Something that would put him in harm's way? The stakes were too high for Jess. Didn't he see that? He had to be as far away from the Hartzke brothers as humanly possible. "I can't think about it," she said finally, hoping to close the discussion. "Them. It makes me be somewhere else. Somewhere crazy." 

"I'm right here," he said. "I'll bring you back." 

Rory shuffled her feet, uncomfortable both physically and spiritually. Jess was her boyfriend, not her therapist. He was supposed to hold her hand, not try to fix her head. Fixing her head was too big a job for him, and it wasn't like he had any special skills in that department. Jess had his own issues, big ones. She shivered, unnerved, and closed her eyes, looking inward. "It's not your job," she mumbled. "It's not your _role._" 

"Did you make a deal?" he asked. "Is that why you won't talk?" 

Startled, her eyes flew open. "A--a deal?" she said cautiously. 

"He told me that you made a bargain with him." 

"Who?" 

"Ah, Christ," he sighed. "Forget it. I don't know what I'm saying." 

"A bargain?" The little pocket in space that was the distance between him and her in the dark grew tight and airless, stretching thin. "Is this another trick?" she asked, in a very small voice. She felt guilty and wretched. What was she supposed to say to _that?_ That Buddy Hartzke had wanted to smother Jess with duct tape, but for her, things had been different? That Buddy Hartzke had taken the tape off her mouth so she could breathe, and she had been so _grateful?_ That she had thought Jess was _dead,_ and she was all _alone,_ and she had considered it--she had thought about making a bargain with the man who wanted to murder Jess? 

"Did you make deal about _me?_" Jess asked quietly. "With Len Hartzke?" 

"Him?" 

"He told me you made an agreement with him." 

"Oh, my God," she said, aghast. "Do you really believe that?" 

"No." He bent his head. For a moment he was quiet. The bushes rattled in the wind, and he jumped, glancing over his shoulder. He rubbed the back of his neck, sighing, and looked up at her. "Well, I don't know, Rory." He threw up his hands in an expansive shrug. "You were so scared. And you were mad at me." 

"Not mad enough to . . . not scared enough to-" Her head was pounding! "I did not . . . _negotiate_ with Len Hartzke. How could I?" She pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling. She could very easy have burst into tears. A slow shiver worked its way up her body, and she tensed to meet it halfway. Her stomach was hollow, and she was afraid she was going to lose control. If she collapsed sobbing, Jess was going to think she was completely guilty. "He didn't look at me like I was a p--person," she stuttered. "Wuh--words came out of my mouth and he didn't even hear them. He's in his own little world!" 

"It's _okay,_ Rory." 

"I didn't make a deal with him. I don't care what he told you." Her eyes narrowed. "What did he tell you?" 

Jess sighed. "What do you think he said? It was _bullshit._ He told me he gave you a choice." 

"He's big on Sophie's choices," Rory said bitterly. 

_ "What?"_

"He's such a--a-" She looked down at him. He was holding himself oddly. Rory thought he seemed ready to jump out of his skin. She was alarmed. "Jess? Jess, what is it?" 

"I didn't want you to know." 

"What are you talking about?" 

"I never wanted you to know," he said mournfully. 

"What are you talking about?!" 

Jess blinked slowly, and looked up at her. He frowned. "Why did you use that expression?" 

She frowned too, nervously smoothing her skirt. "In the shed. You were so hurt. And I _knew._ I knew he did it because--because-" She put her hands to her temples. Her head could explode at any minute. "I'm so sorry!" she said plaintively. "He said he was going to punish _me! _ He never even mentioned you! I didn't understand!" 

"I don't want you to understand him," Jess said, calmer. Strangely, he seemed relieved. 

"Is that what you meant, before?" 

"Ah, Rory? Punish you _how?_" 

"Excuse me," she said irritably. "Is that what you meant before? When you said if I did something, it was okay?" 

"What? Yeah. I'm sorry. I'm tired. I'm so fucked up." 

"So, you were _forgiving_ me." 

"No," he said quickly. 

"Because you thought I _did_ do it. You thought I made a deal with Len Hartzke--at your expense." 

"It doesn't matter." 

"I'd like to know. For future reference. So when you have your next fit of insecurity and throw it in my face, I can be prepared." 

"Jeez, Rory! He played us!" Jess dropped his arms in an angry motion, slicing the air. "It wasn't enough for him to fuck us over! If we were ever together again, he wanted this exact thing to happen! He wanted to make me doubt you, so I'd be cruel to you! Then you'd be scared of me, and that would isolate you! You'd be all alone with nobody to turn to! He had to leave his fingerprints all over us! Like the goddamn fingerprints on your neck!" 

Rory put her hand to her throat. She had forgotten about that. "Tell me what the choice was supposed to be." 

Jess shook his head, silent, and Rory didn't think he was going to answer. He seemed really tired, too tired, and Rory, who was more than passing tired herself, had no idea what she was going to do when he made good on his threat to be too far gone to continue. When Jess spoke again, his voice was low, and it was hard for her to hear over the pounding in her ears. "He came to me, and everything he said was poison. I didn't know if you were alive, or dead. One minute he said one thing, and the next minute it was something different. I couldn't do anything. I didn't know what he was doing to you, and what would make it worse-" 

Jess looked up. Rory could see the dark blood that had dripped from his forehead. She could see his stiffness, and the desperate fatigue. But she couldn't see what he was feeling, and that scared her. What if he decided he hated her? What if he decided to go away? "Tell me," she begged. "Please tell me. You have to tell me what he said about me." 

"He told me he made you choose--and you chose yourself over me." Jess's voice was thin. "He said you told him you didn't care what he did to me, as long as he didn't hurt you." 

Rory's face got very hot, and her skin seemed stretched too tightly over her bones. She held up her hands, opening and closing them--they were numb. She didn't know what to say. She had to say something. She tried to talk to him in a language that he would understand. "Do it to Julia," she said. "Not me." 

Her words spun out lazily, on a current of air. His forehead creased, and he stared at her, looking confused. "What?" Then his head snapped back and his eyes widened. He made an angry noise. "And I fell for it," he breathed. "I thought I didn't, but I did. It was eating away at me, like cancer. Oh, baby. I was so . . . _stupid._" 

"And that's what you thought?" Rory asked. "Is that what you thought I did to you, Jess? Do you really think he could-" She paused, thankful for the dark. She didn't feel entirely truthful, although she wasn't sure why. She hoped he wouldn't pick up on it--she couldn't stand to be grilled and accused. It made her sick. Hadn't she searched for him? She had looked for him in every room! If she hadn't been looking, Len Hartzke wouldn't have caught her. He wouldn't have had the opportunity to . . . . 

She crossed her arms over her chest, covering her breasts. She shut that line of thought down. She shut it down _hard._ "Did you really think anything he could do would make me give you up?" She could hardly find the breath to plead with him. If he persisted in this, she was going to break into a thousand pieces. "He tells lies. All he ever does is lie." 

"I knew that," Jess whispered. "I_ knew_ that." 

Her shoulders sagged. "What he told you--that's not even the way it happened." She swallowed a sob, tucking her chin to her chest. "It wasn't intentional. I didn't get the _rules!_" 

"I know. Honey, I _know._ I shouldn't have said anything. I don't know why I did." He rotated his head on his neck, making a tired sound. He rubbed his arms, as if to warm them, and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm being stupid. I'm being an asshole." Sighing heavily, he turned away. He was quiet for a second, then he said: "He was just so . . . _angry_." 

Jess was on wet, uneven ground, surrounded by bushes that were darkly vibrant even in this season. He was so still, he could have faded into the landscape. Jess tended to grate on people. He got under their skin. It was unusual for him to disappear so completely. Rory coughed. The sound was loud in the silence, and his shoulders twitched like rabbit ears, perhaps in sympathetic response. Rory's eyes were watery now, and she blinked, rubbing them. She wished Jess would turn around. "I didn't mean for you to get hurt," she moaned. "I didn't understand!" 

"But I don't-" He looked over his shoulder. "Rory, why-?" He took a breath. "What _did_ happen?" 

"I kicked him! I hit him!" 

Turning back to her, he asked: "What did he do?" 

"Nothing." She raised a shoulder, and dropped it, a half-hearted shrug. "He threw me down the basement stairs and left me there." 

"He threw you down the stairs?" Jess staggered back a step. "He threw you down the_ basement stairs?!_" 

"He just left me there. For hours and hours." 

"He threw you down the _stairs,_" Jess repeated weakly. 

She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. "It would have served him right if I died down there." 

"Fuck," said Jess, shivering. 

"It was really cold. And sort of creepy. Jess, why do they have a room like that? It serves no useful purpose." 

He gave her an odd look. "Rory," he said carefully, "didn't you hear what he said in the shed?" He ran a hand over his face. "He wanted to _torture_ you." 

"Torture," she said distantly. 

"He was going to leave you alone in the dark, and when he came to let you out, you would have been . . . docile. And grateful. Grateful to him for letting you out of the hell hole he locked you in, in the first place." 

"Grateful." She shuddered, and looked away. "I didn't pay any attention to that. I don't like to listen to him when he talks. And at the time, I was sort of worried about other things. Like what they were doing to you. With the tape and the--the cigarettes, and stuff." 

"He put you down there to _break_ you. He said so, right in front of me." 

"Well, it didn't work. And anyway, I decided not to stay." 

"Jesus." Jess looked a little dizzy. "Okay. So, part of the time, you were tied up, upstairs." 

"Let's talk about something else," Rory said quickly. 

He held up his hands. "Okay, okay. And part of the time you were--what? In a heap at the bottom of the basement stairs?" 

"That about covers it," she said. 

"And you kicked him because-?" 

"He just needed kicking." 

"Rory, come on." 

"This is really boring, Jess. We've been standing here forever. Let's get moving." 

"Rory," he said softly. "I'm freaking out, here. Some of the stuff he told me was really, really scary. And the stuff you're allowing me to know-" He shook his head helplessly. "You're in front of me now, and you're so pale. Your face is bruised, and I don't know what else. For all I know, you're bleeding internally. You could have broken bones." 

"Here we go again." She threw up her hands in irritation. "Nothing is broken. And I'm not broken, either. I wish you'd get over it, that whole thing you have in your head about me being . . . so fragile. I'm hardly even hurt. You're way more hurt than I am." 

"Rory, you were in that house for a really long time. You can't expect me to believe you're not hurt." 

It was strange the way it happened. She decided to tell him. Everything. She hadn't been planning on it. Maybe she was worn out and tired of dancing her ass off, like a one-woman gypsy rave. _It's not so bad,_ she thought. _Nothing happened. I'll say it, it'll be over, and we can move on. He'll be fine. _She took a deep breath, bracing herself. "He-" She broke off, losing her train of thought. She tried again. "He-" It was gone. Her head was empty. _Wouldn't it be funny,_ she thought,_ if my head was a balloon head, and my face was just painted on the side?_

"Rory?" 

"Hydrogen," she said. 

"Excuse me?" 

"Helium. Lithium. Beryllium. . . ." 

"Rory!" He took a quick step toward her, but she waved him off. 

"Helium," she repeated. "For balloons. I was just trying to remember which one." 

"Shit," said Jess. 

"Isn't that funny? I forgot which was the right one." 

"Come down here with me," he said. "I'm afraid you're going to fall." 

"This is your third night," she pointed out. "You never really slept." 

"Excuse me?" 

"Being unconscious doesn't count." 

"Okay," he said tentatively. "Where are you going with this?" 

"And what did you eat? A chocolate bar, the day before yesterday. Plus, you got stabbed." 

He put his hand to his side. "Whatever." 

"I'm just saying. You can't afford to dwell on . . . what's it called?" 

"I don't know." He took another step. "I don't know what you're trying to say." 

"Repetitive thoughts? Disturbing thoughts?" She tapped her forehead. "God! I feel so stupid!" 

"You're tired, too," he said. "You're sleep deprived." 

"If it bothers you to think about what happened, you shouldn't do it." 

"It would make me feel better to know how you're doing for real." 

"I'm good," she said. "Forget about it." 

"Did they really feed you?" 

She nodded. "Oh, sure. They treated me like a queen." 

"I'm glad you had something," Jess said. "I would have been afraid to eat. I would have thought it was drugged." 

"Oh," she breathed, and a chill dripped down her spine. "I never even considered that." _Don't eat anything the fairies offer,_ she thought. _You'll be trapped in their kingdom and never get out._ She shivered, feeling somewhat ill. _I ate the sandwich and nothing happened. It didn't even stick to the roof of my mouth. Besides, when he wanted me to be unconscious, all he had to do was punch me._

"Rory? What just happened? What upset you?" 

"I'm--I'm not upset." She laughed weakly, to show him she was okay, but she couldn't stop herself from touching the bruise on her jaw. It was sore. She noticed Jess was staring at her, his brow heavy, his eyes a solid black. She wanted to tell him to quit it, to stop looking, to find something else to gawk at, a P.T. Barnum exhibit. In the dark, it was impossible to tell what his expressions _meant. _ Did he think she was a freak? _Here's the girl who was kept captive. She was tied up! Locked in the basement! They took off some of her clothes! She doesn't know which! Line up for tickets on the right. _"So," she said, struggling to keep the quiver out of her voice, "divide and conquer--that's Len Hartzke's big strategy, huh? Very original." 

"It doesn't matter," Jess said in a low voice. "I knew he was lying. Somewhere in my head I knew that. I knew you would never agree-" 

"To what?" she asked softly. 

"It's hard," he said. "It's hard to remember what's real, when you're hurting so bad." 

_Hurting,_ she thought, swallowing hard. _He was hurting so bad._ "Oh, God," she moaned. "You thought I betrayed you. You thought I bought you all that pain." 

"No," he gasped. 

"You did," she insisted. "You always thought I would. You've been all set since day one to believe I would betray you about something." 

"Rory-" 

"Why, Jess? Why? What did I do? What did I do that was so bad?" 

"It doesn't matter! You should never have been there in the first place!" 

"No," she agreed, over the intense pressure between her eyes. For a while, they stood like that, some distance apart, neither looking at the other. Rory concentrated on breathing. Apparently she had lost the reflexive behavior, and sometimes she forgot. Finally, she said, "I had weird thoughts, too. About you. I was messed up, and it was all so strange." 

"What sort of thoughts?" 

"It doesn't matter," she said in a low voice. "It was stupid. The point is, we have to put the past behind us. We have to count on each other, now. Don't we?" 

"I want to," he said. "That's what I want to have happen." 

"Maybe . . . maybe we might actually stand a chance, if we stick together." 

"As opposed to what?" he said sharply, and his harsh tone made her jump. "As long as I can keep going, you have to stay with me. You can't run off on your own. I won't allow it." 

_You won't allow it._ She had been looking for reassurance that he would continue, that he wouldn't give up and leave her all alone, but what she had gotten instead was this strange, grim pronouncement. Involuntarily, her hand twitched to her thigh. She wouldn't have been able to say why. It wasn't like she could use the wad of bills stuffed under her stocking top. In the Pine Barrens, there was nothing to buy. But she hadn't told him about the money. She didn't know if she was going to. She looked down at Jess, her jaw stiff. She saw the sudden head tilt, the tightening of his shoulders. Had he caught the gesture? Was he suspicious? What would he do? Would he take her money away? He had to keep everything--the flashlight, the razor blade. That was just the way he was. It was on the tip of her tongue, but she didn't say it: _You sold me to the Hartzke brothers, you asshole. Are you really telling me that if I tried to leave you--you wouldn't allow it?_ She sighed. Jess didn't seem to understand that she loved him so much that she was full of the ache of it, but there was a mighty big leap of faith involved in _realigning_ herself with him. 

"Rory, I tried. I tried to get you back. Please let that count for something." 

Her mouth fell open. Sometimes, it was like he was in her head. It was very irritating! Was it her face? Could he see it all on her face--every thought she had? "Okay," she said, to say something. 

"Rory, it's time to talk, now. Stop screwing around. Not knowing is killing me." 

"It wasn't like you think," she whispered. 

He froze. "No?" He didn't even raise his head to look at her. 

_ "No,"_ she insisted. 

"What-" He swallowed. "What did they do to you?" 

"I was just scared," she said in a low voice. "That's all." He made an impatient noise, and she looked down at him, frowning. _"Fine."_ She let out a shaky breath, fingering the sore spot on her jaw. "I was unconscious for a while, too. I don't know how long." She closed her eyes, wavering on her rock pedestal. "And the truth of the matter is, I don't know what happened. I checked, but I don't know for sure." She sniffed and wiped her eyes. "There! Are you satisfied?" 

"Checked what? How?" 

She made a face. "I _looked._" A brief flashbulb went off in the back of her brain, and she hugged herself, shivering. 

"Looked at what?" 

_About a hundred years has passed,_ she thought, but the words were in somebody else's voice. She was somewhere cold, and a dark shadow crept over her as she lay helpless, unable to move her arms and legs. "Uh," she said, distracted. "My underwear." 

"But, Rory-" 

Whatever Jess was saying, she missed it. She might have had her head pressed between two pillows, with her own pulse crunching in her ears. The only thing that was crystal was the other voice: _I came down to look at you twice, while you were sleeping. _She was frightened, and she shuddered, setting off an internal vibration that made her seasick. _What the-?_ She shoved her thoughts away, all of them, gasping at the effort. A clumsy hand went to her chest, and she couldn't feel it--either her fingers were numb, or her heart had stopped beating. The stars were jitterbugging up above, and off in the distance there were trees. She started. Did the trees move? Had they come closer? Could they do that? Jess took a step toward her, and stopped. He seemed reluctant to touch her, and she was glad. She didn't want him to touch her, not now. Dully, Rory regarded him. It was hard to see. There was something in front of her eyes, a layer of gauze, or smoke. She realized he was talking, maybe had been for a while. She thought it over, and decided to listen. 

" . . . my voice," he said urgently. "Listen to my voice." 

"Okay." She was surprised to find her own voice was a little rusty. 

"I'm right in front of you. Do you see me?" 

"Uh-" 

"I'm right here. Do you see me?" 

"I--I see you. I saw you before." 

"Find your way back," he said. 

She frowned. "I'm not sure how." 

"Come back to me, Rory. Don't leave me all alone." 

"I'm trying," she said, and she was. She was actually straining. It was like she was struggling to wake herself out of a dream. 

"If you don't come back, I'm pulling you down from there, whether you want me to touch you or not." 

"Okay," she said. "I want you to. I think." She blinked and shook herself. "I'm fine." 

"Are you sure?" 

"Here's the thing," she said conversationally. "I was a virgin, right? I thought maybe I would have been bleeding, or something. It was practically the first thing _you_ asked." 

"Oh, shit," he said, sounding dismayed. 

"Anyway, it doesn't hurt. I think it would be, ah, kind of _sore,_ if . . . you know." She shrugged. "But, like I said, I don't know." 

Jess groaned, and it seemed as though his knees gave way. "Oh, Rory." 

"What's the matter?" she asked. "I don't understand. I thought you would be happy." 

He ended in a crouch, his head hanging. "I can't stand it," he was muttering. "I can't stand it!" 

She slid off the rock, and rushed to take his arm. "It doesn't matter." She pulled him to his feet. She draped his arm over her shoulder, and clung to that wrist. She slid her other arm around his waist. "I don't care, and you shouldn't care, either. It doesn't matter one bit."   
  


"Zee." 

"Rory, I'm too tired." 

_ "Zee,"_ she said insistently. It was an easy one. She knew that if he thought about it for a second, he'd get it; she'd seen him with the book. 

"Emile-" he started, but she cut him off. 

_ "Titles."_ She was already a little breathless. He was so heavy, and unsteady, and she'd been exhausted to begin with. "Jess, c'mon." 

"Zee," he said tiredly. "Zee. Known in some parts of the world as 'Zed' . . . " 

"Zed's dead," she said automatically. 

"Ladies and gentlemen. And now the moment you've all been waiting for . . . " 

"The world famous . . . " 

"Jack Rabbit Slims . . . " 

"Twist contest!" Rory finished, and they both laughed. Jess pulled her closer, and kissed the top of her head. 

"That movie is so full of shit," he whispered into her hair. 

She had her hand on his chest, and was wishing he'd ease off. He was holding her too tight. He always did when he got anxious. She was trying to keep herself from tensing up on him. She didn't want to make him feel worse. "It's violent," she said. 

He laughed faintly. "Unlike our real lives." 

"Which are nothing but good, clean, sunshiny fun?" 

"Rory . . . let's go to Canada." Jess leaned heavily on her shoulders. 

"Okay," she gasped. 

"You'd have to get used to saying 'Zed,' and . . . " He stopped walking. 

Rory struggled, bearing his full weight. "Oh, honey. You have to keep going!" 

"What was I saying?" He sounded confused. 

"A book that starts with the letter 'Zee,'" she supplied. Rory was starting to panic. If he went down, she didn't think she'd ever get him back on his feet. 

"You called me 'honey,'" he said wonderingly. "That's the first time you ever did that." He turned his head and nuzzled her temple. 

She shrugged him off. "I will call you 'honey' every hour on the hour, if only you'll keep _walking!_ Let's go, champ. Left, right, left, right!" 

Jess looked around stupidly. "Where the hell are we?" 

"Please." This she spoke to the starry sky. "Don't let him get lost!" 

"I'm not _lost._" He waved his hand at the trees, squishing her head in the crook of his arm. "Just follow the . . . the . . . " 

"The trail?" Her voice was muffled. They had yet to come upon his trail. She grabbed his wrist. _God, he stinks._ Her nose wrinkled, but in a way, she loved it--she loved his strong smell. _Maybe it's pheromones,_ she thought. _From the sweat. There's pheromones in sweat. He was locked up in the shed all day, and all he did was sweat._

"The White Rabbit." He giggled. 

"Jess!" She was concerned. He wasn't much of a giggler. "You know this is real, right? It's not a dream." 

"Of course I do." 

"It's just . . . for a while I didn't. And even now, I'm not so sure. It would be helpful if one of us was more or less-" 

"In charge? I _am_ in charge. Don't worry your pretty little head about it." 

"Swell. Glad to hear it." She sighed, hitching his arm more firmly over her shoulders. "One foot, two foot," she intoned, and got him walking. "Red foot, blue foot . . . " 

"Oh, yeah," he said. _"Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance!"_

"I'm not sure how you got from here to there, but very good. Whoops!" She tugged on his arm. "Keep moving." 

"That means you're stuck with an 'E.'" 

"That I am." 

"Hoist on your own petard." 

"I'll think of something," she said. "You think about putting one foot in front of the other." 

"I'm thinking about _you._" He was heavy again, leaning on her shoulder. "I thought--I thought I was never-" 

"I know," she said. "Me too." 

"He-" 

"Don't!" she said. 

"I've never been scared like that." His voice was raw. "That--I'm sorry--that _fucking asshole!_ The things he said he'd done to you . . . and I'd already seen how they'd hurt you . . . " 

"Please," she whispered. 

"I won't repeat it," he said. "I know you can't . . . I'm going to shut up now. God! I feel like I'm losing it." 

_"Please,"_ she begged. "You're going to make yourself sick. You're going to make _me_ sick. If you make me sick, I can't help _you._" 

"The letter 'E,'" he said quickly. 

Rory let herself fall deep into her head, past ugly memories that throbbed like tumors. She surfaced in a quiet place. She wasn't thinking about the game. That was the trick--not to try. The first title that came to mind was _Emma,_ of course, by Jane Austen. Rory didn't want to say that. She thought it was too easy. She hovered over _Edward the Second,_ by Christopher Marlowe, but rejected it on the grounds that it was a play. There was _Eugene Onegin,_ by Pushkin, but it was a poem, and anyhow, Eugene in the original Russian was Yevgeny, which started with a 'Y.' She thought of _The Edible Woman,_ by Margaret Atwood, and _Empire of the Sun,_ by J.G. Ballard. And what about _The Evening Star: Recollections,_ by Colette? Really, there were so many choices! 

"Rory?" Jess said gently, and she opened her eyes. 

"Oh, hum," she said. "_The Ersatz Elevator,_ by Lemony Snicket." She was disappointed; she had wanted to give him a harder letter. At least it was fun to say 'ersatz.' 'Ersatz' was a word she didn't say very often. 

"I'll take your word for it." She didn't have to look at him. She could tell by his voice that he was smiling. "'R.' Let me see . . . _Red Harvest,_ by Dashiell Hammett." 

_ "The Thin Man,"_ she said. "No, wait! I want a do over." 

"Too late." 

"Please!" She didn't want to copy him and do a Dashiell Hammett. 

"Fine," he said. "The penalty for a do over is one kiss." 

Rory tensed, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. It wasn't that she didn't want to kiss him. She'd done it before, and it had been fine. Nice. Sweet, even. But it had been her kiss, she had done it to help him. When he had surprised her with his dark, angry kiss, she had been bounced out of her head. She didn't know what had happened, exactly. One minute she had been there, and the next, she was absent. She could have been having tea with Persephone in the Nether World, for all she knew. But there was one piece of knowledge she did have, although she had wrapped it in forget and tucked it in a corner. That kiss hadn't been about loving her. Jess had needed to prove something to himself. He had needed to show himself that he was bigger and stronger than somebody--even if that somebody was only rosefrail Rory Gilmore.   
  
Rory looked at him once more, feeling frustrated. She was so mad at him, and he was so beautiful. With dismay, she realized that what had happened to her in the shed hadn't been a fluke; she really was starting to want him again. It was much too soon! She was afraid. After spending so much time in a defensive posture, warding off all comers, she hadn't the foggiest how she would react from one moment to the next. Poor Jess was under the weather. What if she karate chopped him? What if she accidentally kicked him in the balls? 

"I was just kidding," he said softly. "You don't have to." It seemed like he had waited a long time before speaking. Long enough for her to think all those crazy thoughts. 

"I-" 

"I thought you were okay with it." 

"I want-" 

"You don't have to feel like you have to let me paw you, Rory. I'm not going to walk out on you. I can totally lay off you, if that's what you want. No pressure." 

"I _want _to," she said, when he finally stopped blathering. "I'm just not sure." 

"If you don't like it, you can stop." 

"I want to feel better," she whispered. 

"It's up to you, Rory." He slid his arm away from her shoulders, and put his hands behind his back. Without allowing herself to think, she darted in like a little hummingbird, and gave him a dry kiss at the corner of his mouth. "Sorry, missy," he said, more jovial now that the experiment had been a success. "I forgot to say, one kiss with tongue." He tried to kiss her again, and Rory turned her head away, laughing. "That was a joke, too," he clarified. 

"I know," she assured him. "_Through the Looking-Glass,_ by Lewis Carrol." That wasn't the full title, but she was feeling rushed. She knew he wouldn't care. 

"This game sucks. Did you make it up?" Drawing gently on her hand, he danced her in front of him. In her desire to keep moving, she continued to walk backward, and for a moment they were doing an awkward little foxtrot. Jess stopped her, putting a hand to either side of her face. She hissed, her hands flying up to clutch his wrists. He seemed stricken. "Oh, God! Did I hurt you?" 

She shook her head. "You have the letter 'S.'" 

"Rory." His voice was weighted with sadness. "Rory, I'm so-" 

She put a finger to his lips. "The letter 'S.'" 

_"So Long, and Thanks for all the Fish,"_ he mumbled. His lips were soft against her finger. "Douglas Adams." He took her hands in his cold hands. "Your poor wrists," he said sadly. "I can't wrap my head around it. How could they do that to you?" 

"I told you," she said faintly. "I tried to run away." 

He held her hand to his cheek. She felt his jaw moving as he whispered: "I knew it would be bad. I thought I was prepared. But when I saw you like that, I nearly lost my mind-" 

She pulled her hand away. "Jess, please." 

"Oh, God," he groaned. "I need to talk and talk and talk. Who would have thought? But you can't. You need something else. I don't know what." 

"I need to douse them with gasoline and set them on fire," she said. "Or maybe myself. Please stop talking about it." 

_ "Rory."_ He shuddered. "Jesus Christ!" 

"I didn't mean that." She shrugged. "I guess. I don't know." 

"The, ah . . . _revenge_ part of that didn't bother me. As a concept. But don't think about hurting yourself. It's too scary." 

"I didn't . . ." The rest of the sentence fell out of her head, as she forgot what they were talking about. She looked up at him with a quizzical expression. "Pardon?" 

"I _need_ you." His voice dropped. "Rory, maybe this is going to come out wrong. I know this is a nightmare for you. I know this is the worst place you've ever been, and you want to be far away. But don't let yourself get stuck where you can't see another way out. Because I'd rather be anywhere you are, than someplace you're not. Does that make sense? Before you, I don't think I understood how alone I was." The words had spilled out fast and jumbled. He drew a long breath. "I'm so--I'm so glad you're here." 

"I love you, too, Jess." Should she give him another kiss? He seemed so sad. She slung his arm back over her shoulders. That would have to do, for now. "I have the letter 'H.'" She wanted to stick him with a harder letter this time, so she mulled it over. Finally she said, "_Heidi,_ by Johanna Spyri." 

"Huh," he said, but he sounded impressed. "You put the right amount of English on that one." 

She laughed, getting the joke. 'English,' was a billiards term. In this context, it meant she had set him up with a difficult shot. She had learned about billiards from her grandpa, who'd had a brief but intense love affair with the sport when he was younger. After a moment, Rory got the pun too, and forced herself to laugh again. She knew it pleased Jess to hear her laugh, and she wanted to take his mind off things. She didn't really feel like laughing, anymore. She had an image of her grandpa in her mind, now. _He must be so disappointed in me,_ she thought sadly. _If he knew the terrible things that have happened . . . I bet he would hate me._ There was an ache in the pit of her stomach. 

Jess was frowning. "The letter 'I,'" Rory reminded him. 

"I know. _In the Electric Mist with Confederate Dead._" 

"What?" She had been sure he was going to say _Invisible Man,_ by Ralph Ellison, or even _Inside the Whale and other essays,_ by George Orwell, which she would have refused to accept on the grounds that it was essays. 

"James Lee Burke." He seemed distracted. "Isn't _Heidi_ a little girl's book?" 

Puzzled, she shrugged. "I guess so. Why?" 

"Nothing." His voice was troubled. He took his arm off her shoulders, and grabbed her hand. "Let's pick up the pace." 

"Are you better, now?" she asked. 

"Yeah."   
  


"Do you hear that?" 

She froze. "Wha--what?" 

He looked at her. "Oh, no. Rory, I'm sorry. I meant, do you hear water?" 

She gave a shaky little laugh. "You scared me!" 

"I didn't mean to." He touched her nose with the tip of his finger. "You really can't see, can you? Luke–" He broke off and looked away. 

"Luke what?" 

"I guess I was going to say, Luke was right. You should have eaten a carrot once in a while." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. In a low voice he added, "I didn't think it would hurt so much." 

"I know," she whispered. "Believe me, I know." 

"I think there's . . . just a sec. Stay there." He let go of her hand and pushed forward, trampling the beardgrass. Anxiously, she watched his back. She had only just found him, and was unwilling to let him out of her sight. She was afraid he would vanish. Then, not only would she not know where he was or what was happening to him, but she would be so alone, and she wouldn't be able to stand being alone again. 

The wind rolled across the field, ruffling the tall grasses and lifting her skirt. Her hair blew into her face, and she brushed it back. Stopping was bad. It let her feel--really feel--just how out of it she was. As they had walked the Pine Barrens, off in the distance, Rory had perceived her ultimate limit. It had been a wall, and she had dreaded it, for she had been certain it would be absolutely insurmountable. But when she had arrived at it, and that had been some time ago, it had been nothing, almost a mirage. She had sailed right through. Unfortunately, she had emerged scattered and ghost-like on the other side. She was keeping her wits about her only with great difficulty. 

She yawned, and immediately felt sick to her stomach. She reflected that her state of mind was not helped by the intermittent and disturbing erotic thoughts she was having about Jess. She was trying not to. It wasn't the time or the place. But she couldn't help it! For the last little while, she had been wandering in and out of half-dreams where she took him by the hand, and led him into the bushes. She peeled away his T-shirt, and undid his jeans. She pushed him back in the tall grass . . . . 

It was soothing to imagine touching him. Her hair blew about her face, and she let it alone, untroubled. She smiled a faint, dreamy smile, listing slightly. Stretching out her arms, she tilted back her head. Now the night was kind and friendly, holding her up. She felt at peace, more relaxed than she had been in ages. The woods were perfectly beautiful, sheltering and protecting them . . . . 

Rory was dumped out of her queer euphoria with a sickening jolt. She shuddered, and her hand went to her chest. There was a tight pain under her breast, and she felt strange in her own skin. She wanted to strip off Jess's jacket, and maybe everything else. She wound her hands together behind her back, because she was starting to feel really weird. She was afraid she was going to start picking at herself, and pulling her own hair. She felt _dirty_. She had a startling thought. In her fantasy, Jess did only what she wanted. Nothing. But what if . . . what if she let him make her his for real? Could she? Could she stand it? Maybe then Len Hartzke wouldn't want her anymore. Would that make them safe? 

Waiting, too tired to stand, reluctant to sit, she began to get irritated with Jess. Sure, it was very manly to forge ahead, surveying the terrain, but it left her with nothing to do but wring her hands and await his return. _He's a city boy._ She was trying to have a rational thought about something that made sense. _What does he know--about anything? And where's this fabulous trail he's supposed to have made for me? I haven't seen one whit of it!_ She giggled as a goofy montage sequence rolled through her head: 'Jess at summer camp.' There was a shot of him at woodcraft, and another at canoe lessons. Potato sack races. The chow line. She closed one eye. Was Bill Murray one of his camp counselors? _Are you ready for the SUMMER? Are you ready for a GOOD TIME?_ In any event, it was absurd. Jess had most likely spent his summers with the other city boys, holding up a wall at the Quick-E-Mart. He would have tried to get a grownup to buy him beer, and been rude to all the pretty girls. Her stomach twisted as she thought of him as part of a crowd. Boys in groups were suspicious. They said things. There was always the possibility they could get out of hand, and whatever happened, it happened under the radar of the adults who were supposed to police such things. 

_Boys get out of hand. _She started to feel nervous. She picked a fleck of sleep gunk out of her tear duct. _Get out of hand?_ Her eyes narrowed, and she remembered. "Oh," she whispered. _"The picture!"_

Jess disappeared and Rory went forward quickly. 

"Jess?" She was spattered with faint dew, and her skirt billowed in the breeze. "Jess! Where are you?" 

He popped out of the grass. He had pulled up his T-shirt, and was dabbing his blood-sticky eye with the hem. Rory's heart did a flip flop at the sight pale skin. She also caught a quick glimpse of the crusty slash on his ribs, so her admiration of his flat stomach was short-lived. "Jess," she said, feeling headachy and overwhelmed. "Your cut . . . oh, God--your _cuts._ What are we going to do?" 

He shrugged. "There's nothing we _can_ do." 

"But, what were you doing?" Rory rubbed the corner of her eye with her knuckle, trying to relieve some of the pressure. 

"I was--there's a stream. We'll have to cross it. It's not very wide." 

She groaned. "You're kidding! That's great. That's just . . . great." She turned away, coughing. She clapped a hand over her mouth, trying to be discreet. "Ew!" she said to herself, thoroughly grossed out. She had to wipe her hand on her skirt. 

When she turned back, Jess was frowning at her. He looked her up and down and said: "I think I'd better carry you." 

"My feet are already wet." 

"I know. But all you have on are your pantyhose, and those are ripped to shit. Your legs are more or less bare." 

"I'll be okay." 

His face split in a huge yawn, and he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing. "God, I've got to wake up!" He looked at her, blinking. "Rory, come on. You're sick. You're totally run down, and you were whacked out before we even left Stars Hollow." 

"I'm not sick!" 

He scratched under his chin. "You haven't slept in days, and I don't believe anybody fed you, either. Except me." 

"He did!" she insisted. "He gave me a sandwich!" 

"Who? Your boyfriend Buddy Hartzke?" 

"Oh, my God," she said, turning away sharply. "Why would you say that? Why would you say that to me?!" 

"Rory!" Behind her, she heard a sigh. "I'm sorry. I keep promising myself I won't be mean to you, and then I turn around and do it." 

Tentatively, she turned back to him. "Well, you _can't_ carry me," she said. "You're limping along like a three-legged dog." 

"Three-legged dogs are very capable," he rejoined. "By your own account, you have a tendency to fall over. You'll get soaked and be miserable." 

"If you use up the dregs of your strength playing Walter Raleigh, _that_ will make me miserable." 

"I'm using the dregs of my strength to debate every last fucking thing with you!" 

"Don't yell at me! It makes me want to do exactly the opposite of what you say!" 

"Well, my evil plan is obviously not working, because I'm trying to get _you_ to carry _me!_" 

Surprised, Rory laughed out loud. "God," she said. "I would if I could." 

"Come on. Get on my back, and enjoy the ride." He turned and motioned impatiently. 

"Wait. I-" She wanted to ask him. She intended to ask him. 

_"What?"_ He shot a grouchy look over his shoulder. 

In the end, she couldn't do it. She might have learned something she couldn't live with, and she needed him way too much to risk that. She put her arms around his neck and hopped up, hugging him with her knees. Jess reached back over her legs and clasped his hands under her ass. Her skirt had ridden up, and his hands were cold on her bottom. "You're all wet!" 

"I had a drink. Are you thirsty?" 

"No." He resettled her weight, and one of his hands slid across her butt. She jumped, crawling higher on his back. "Hey! What are you doing?!" 

"Lady, you're choking me." 

"Hands, mister!" 

He snickered. "It was an accident, I swear." 

"Oh, sure!" 

"I'm just glad you managed to hang onto your underwear." 

"Quit it! It hurts!" 

"Mine too," he said dryly. 

"Oh." She tucked her chin to his shoulder, murmuring, "Please, be careful." She didn't know whether she meant, _Be careful with me,_ or, _Be careful in the stream. _ She might have meant, _Be careful with your own bad self--you might not be as world-weary and jaded as you think._

"I've got you," he replied, assuming as always that was his job. He hung onto a cedar bough and eased himself into the dark water, gasping at the cold. Rory clung to his back, thinking, _Jess Mariano gets back in the game._

It wasn't as comforting as she'd hoped it would be.   
  


The underbrush intruded, crowding them, and the trees grew thick and insistent. There were tall trees fragrant with needles, spindly trees that looked dead, and odd groupings of more standoffish trees, huddled leaning and trickily secret. "This is impossible," Rory groused. "Are you sure we're going the right way?" 

"Ah," Jess sighed, and Rory knew--she _knew_--he was debating a lie. She was pleased when he continued, because he said something that sounded true: "More or less. I'd feel more confident I wasn't so tired. I still have a left camera, right camera thing happening with my eyes." They circled around three skinny trees with a shared root system, and Jess held aside some branches so Rory could pass in front. "Careful. Watch your hair." 

She put a hand to her head. Her hair was really bugging her. It was out of control. "Uh-oh." 

Rory stopped abruptly, and Jess bumped into her, making her stumble forward a few steps. He murmured, "Sorry." 

She sighed. "Roadblock." Right in front there was a partially collapsed pine, bristly with branches. It was twice as wide around the middle as she was. 

Jess put his hands on his hips. "Huh." He looked at her. "We can climb over, right?" The tree was still attached to the jagged, splintery stump. Propped up by prickly branches, it was higher off the ground than Rory's waist. 

She shrugged. "I guess so." 

"I'll go first. That way, I can catch you if you slip." He slid into a space between the branches, and put his hands on the trunk for leverage. He jumped. His feet touched the bark, and he was over. Rory watched, frankly envious. She knew she was going to have to do it the girly way, like she had climbed out the basement window. "Houston-" Jess said thinly. 

"Oh, no." Rory rushed forward. "Your stitches?" There was a sharp creak, a snapping noise, and Jess dropped down a few feet. 

"Dammit!" he yelled. 

"What happened?" 

"I landed on a branch. It broke. Now it's spearing me in the calf!" 

"Oh, shit." She scrambled, trying to hoist herself onto the tree trunk. 

"My foot's stuck! Shit!" 

"Jess! Calm down. I'll get you out!" 

"Oh, fuck," he moaned. "People have major arteries in their legs!" 

"That's up near your groin," she said, to shut him up. 

"Ugh! This is _killing_ my ankle!" Jess sounded halfway hysterical. Rory churned her legs like a cartoon character. She wasn't having any luck hauling herself up, and she was hurting her stomach. She huffed, and Jess looked up at her. "Rory. _Rory._" He spun his finger in the universal gesture for about-face. "Like you're getting out of a swimming pool." 

"Forget it," she said. "I'm crawling under." 

"Or, you could go under." He sounded exasperated. Rory got down and slid under the tree trunk. There was another loud snap, and he cried, "Watch yourself!" 

"I'm all right," she called. She squeezed between the branches, wiggled a little, and pushed herself with her toes. "Hey," she said on the other side, "that was way easier." 

"There's no way I would have fit," Jess said. "I am not crawling under or through anything else. No more crawling." 

"Duly noted. So, what seems to be the problem?" 

"Watch out!" He caught a malevolent branch, holding it away from her face. He was forced to pin wheel his other arm, to keep his balance. 

"Thanks, sweetie." She crouched beside him. She saw that his ankle was pinned between two low branches. The original branch had fractured, and was poking through his pant leg. "Your jeans are ripped," she reported. 

"Can you do anything?" he asked. 

"I think you're going to have to gnaw it off." Rory grabbed one of the rough branches with two hands. Pulling accomplished nothing. "I have no muscles!" she complained. "This simply will not do!" She dug in her heel to brace herself, and gave the branch a yank. She groaned, leaning away with all her weight, and Jess was able to work his foot free. After that, she was pooped. She lay on her back. "Can you walk on it?" 

"Yeah. It's my calf that hurts." He walked in a circle like a dog chasing his tail, trying to get a look at the back of his leg. 

Rory rolled over, and got up on her hands and knees. She crawled to Jess, and knelt in front of him. "Let me look." She reached for his belt. 

He shoved her. Hard. _"What the hell are you doing?!"_

She tumbled back in the grass, her heart racing crazily. She looked up at Jess. A dull frost was spreading to her extremities, but she resisted it; if she had to run away, she wanted to be able. "Jess," she said warily. His name felt heavy on her tongue. "Pull your pants down. You want me to look , don't you?" She sat up carefully, a frown on her face. Her legs were stretched out in front, her toes pointing opposite directions. She shifted uneasily, pulling down her skirt. "Why--why did you do that? What-? _Oh._ Of course." Slowly, she got to her feet. "I'm sorry." She nodded off to the side. "I'll be right over there. Call me when you're ready." 

She stood with her back to him, her arms crossed and her hands cupping her elbows. There was a quick whisper of denim, and he called her back. His jeans were around his ankles. She knelt behind him. With blind fingers, she groped in the folds of his pants until she found the flashlight. She clicked it on. "Oh, hey. That's nothing." She touched his leg gently. "Jess, it's just a scratch. You didn't moan this much when you got stabbed in the gut." 

"I thought I was stuck. I can't stand being trapped. I hate that feeling." 

"Tough guy," she teased, as the distant knowledge that in his panic he had revealed something of himself was consumed by warmer thought. She turned the flashlight off, to save the battery. She held it up, and he took it away, like she'd known he would. Leaning in, she kissed the hollow behind his knee. With the delicate tip of her finger, she traced a squiggle down his calf. She was touching a man's leg--so beautifully strange. It had hair on it. "You big baby," she said affectionately, then had to put her hands between her knees to stop herself running them up his thighs. She drew a wispy breath through her teeth, wanting to hook her fingers under the waistband of his shorts, and ease them over his ass. She would have done it so slowly. Jess turned slightly, and peered down at her. She couldn't tell what he was thinking. She didn't care. "You're going to be fine." 

"I can teach you." They were back to pushing their way through stunted pitch pines. Between breathless gasps and muffled curses, they were talking billiards, specifically Eight Ball. "We can go someplace nice, where ladies play." 

"Ladies." She wrinkled her nose, thinking of garden clubs, and the DAR, and trying very hard not to think of her grandmother. 

He laughed, correcting himself. "_Women._ But I can show you all the tricks. I'm really good at it." 

"I bet." Rory turned away, coughing. She stumbled on a tree root, and Jess caught her arm. She smiled to herself. Of course he was good at pool. He had clever hands. He did magic tricks. He could pick locks. He could run his hand along her thigh and make her shimmy. If she had been the one who needed stitches, she would have been freaked, but she would have let him do it. She would have had no problem with Jess doing a tiny spot of surgery. On her. _I trust him,_ she thought. _When did that happen?_ She looked up at him with something like surprise. _Ask him. Ask him about the photograph._

"I'll give you a tip right now. You have to wear a high neck shirt, so when you bend over the other guys-" 

"The other guys, what?" 

He sighed dispiritedly. "It doesn't matter. We--we'll worry about what you wear if it ever comes to pass." In the gloom, his voice was a treatise on fatigue, and once again Rory began to get anxious. They continued in silence, until Jess said, "Where's your blouse?" 

"What?" 

"It's just . . . it's been bothering me." 

"Jess, no--I'm the one who took it off. I hid it." 

"You hid it? Why?" 

She didn't want to say. It seemed silly, now. "Oh, I guess--I was thinking . . . maybe I might go to the police. It would be sort of like my evidence, you know? My secret evidence that I was there." 

"The police?" 

"Hey, did you ever go in the basement? Did you know it's full of reptiles? And fish?" 

"Reptiles? You mean, like, snakes?" He sounded sick. "Rory! They locked you up with the snakes? _Fuck!_" 

"Whoa, David Banner. I went in there after. So, you did know?" 

He made a noise. "Sort of. I didn't know that's where they keep them." He ran a hand through his hair. "That's crazy. The house is in the middle of nowhere. They don't live there. They just _retreat_ there for-" He broke off abruptly, glanced at Rory, and looked away. 

"What?" 

"Never mind. I only meant, somebody would have to be there all the time, to take care of them." 

"I didn't think of that," she said. "Oh, no. Who feeds them?" 

He gave her a sharp look. "I don't know." 

"But who takes care of them? Oh, this is terrible!" 

"Rory-" He paused. "What they did to you . . . you can't go to the police." 

"_What?_ I can so!" 

"I know this is the wrong thing to tell a girl--you're supposed to tell her she has to--but you can never tell anybody about this." 

"Wha--why?" 

"Think, baby. If you go to the cops, everything goes on the record." 

"But--I might decide--maybe later . . . " 

"Then the Hartzkes would know who you are. They would know your name! It's bad enough they know who I am-" He stopped in his tracks. 

"What?" She didn't like the way he was looking at her. 

_"My God,"_ he whispered. 

"Jess, what? What is it?" 

He blinked. "Nothing. Dammit!" He turned away from her, letting out a hard breath. When he spoke again, his voice was sad. "Don't you get it? You have to disappear. You can't--they can't have a way to get to you. They don't know who you are, and you have to keep it that way." 

"That's so unfair," she breathed. "They just get away with it?" 

"I know. Believe me when I tell you, you don't know how sorry I am." 

They continued in miserable silence. Jess climbed over a root, and turned to take her hand. They passed through the narrow space between two trees, and Rory lifted her head, her nostrils flaring. The skin on the back of her neck was prickling. She looked over her shoulder. Trees. More trees. The underbrush. She tugged on his arm. "Do you--do you think there's something back there?" 

Jess stepped in front of her, staring off in the darkness. "What?" he murmured. "What did you hear?" 

"I--I didn't _hear_ anything." 

"Jeez. Okay." He picked up her hand. "C'mon." 

She looked over her shoulder one more time. "I was going to be a journalist." 

"I know." 

"On _television._" 

"I know that, Rory." 

"I guess I don't care," she whispered. "None of that would have made any difference, anyhow." 

"None of what?" 

"Journalism. There's no . . . no value to it. You can report the news, but everyone's confused about it." 

He shrugged. "All the news agencies have their own agendas. They're big corporations, each with a specific corporate bias. It's hard for the man on the street to figure out what the real truth is." 

"That's not what I mean!" 

"Shhh! Rory, lower your voice." 

"The _people._ They don't get things. They don't remember. Or if they do, they remember wrong!" 

"Rory, be _quiet._" 

"Like, there might be a story, and people would get confused about the details, and think one thing, when it was really the other." 

Jess sighed. "I don't know what you're talking about." 

She dropped his hand, walking ahead into the darkness. "Oh, stupid Buddy Hartzke. He got on my nerves so much." 

Jess's voice floated up to her. "Got on your nerves, how?" 

"He's just the biggest--the stupidest-" 

"Yeah?" 

She shrugged. "He heard a news story once. He thinks it means that if you wear a condom--if the woman tells you to, that it's not--not-" She jumped. Jess was right behind her. Rory could feel his breath in her hair. She hadn't been paying attention to what she was saying, and now she was stuck. 

"Not what?" 

"Nothing." 

"Not what?" 

"Not--not-" 

"Not _rape,_" he said angrily. 

"_No._ Whatever. It doesn't matter." 

"Stop saying that! What the hell is wrong with you?" 

"Wrong with _me?_" 

"Where did this condom thing come from?" 

"Uh-" She looked up at his angry face and made a stab at dissembling. It had never been her strong suit. "You said I had to disappear. I can't be on the news if-" 

"No! With Buddy Hartzke!" 

"It didn't come from anywhere! I said they had to wear condoms, and he said it wasn't rape. Big deal." 

"When?" 

"Oh, Jess. It's so irrelevant. It was talking. It was talk. There was _nothing-_" 

"Shit. Stay there." He shoved her back against a tree, startling her. "Do not move from that spot. Don't move! Shit!" He strode off into the bushes. 

"Jess!" After a moment, she could hear him retching. "Jess?" Rory blinked back tears, hugging herself. "Come--come back," she whispered. Around her, the woods teemed with passionate darkness. The roots and vines stretched toward her. She could hear them. She could hear them slithering. A vein pulsed in her forehead, and she gulped. She peered around the tree trunk, whispering, "Juh--Jess?" He reappeared and held out his hand. "It's dark," she told him. "It's so dark." 

"I know." 

She took his hand, and they began to walk. Jess seemed deflated. Groggy. So weak. Nervously, Rory looked over her shoulder. Her lower lip trembling, she said, "You said 'the snakes.' Like you _knew._ How long have you known about the animals?" Her voice had no particular inflection. 

He groaned. "Can't we table this for now?" 

"No." She wasn't sure whether she wanted to annoy him, or just make him acknowledge her presence. "I think we'll continue." 

"Christ," he said heavily. "Remember when I got cut?" 

She shivered. "Yes." 

"I was late." 

"I know." She squirmed in embarrassment. "Because I had the vapors. That was when you decided I was Camille." 

"When I met up with the guy, he was pissed. Man! What an ass--what a dick. He gave me a gym bag." He laughed, but it was an angry, frustrated sound. "A gym bag! He told me not to open it. He got a call, and went into the back room. So, I opened it. There--please excuse my language, Rory--there was a mother-fucking _snake_ in it!" It wasn't so much his language, as the vehemence of the utterance that made her flinch. 

Jess let go of her, and blocked her, his hand lightly touching her stomach. "Wait. There's a branch." He stepped over it, and put his hands on her waist to steady her as she followed suit. "I thought it was _dead,_" he continued. "I was thinking: 'Why in the hell do the Hartzkes want me to transport a dead snake?' When the guy came back--first, he was all mad. Then he said it was doped up, and not to worry about it." 

Her eyes widened. "Doped up," she breathed. 

"I said: 'That's a _snake._' And he said: 'So?' I said: 'I'm not taking it.' And he said: _'Yes, you are.' _This is the PG version, by the way. That went on for a while, and then we were fighting." 

"With knives." 

Jess sneered. "He was, yeah." 

"God, Jess!" 

"I know." 

"But what did you think it was going to be?" 

He hesitated. "Booze. Cigarettes. Contraband. Not_ wildlife._" 

"But you knew. You knew the Hartzke brothers were bad. Why did you call them? Why did you get involved with them at all?" 

"I needed some quick cash, Rory. To take care of you. I never thought-" 

"You never thought I would get you in this kind of mess." 

"You?" He looked at her strangely. She couldn't tell what he was thinking. He seemed very far away, and she was afraid. 

"Jess," she said quickly. "Everything that's happened, all the stuff that they did to you, it's all my-" 

He cut her off. "The thing that's really bugging me is, I should have taken it. For all the trouble we're in, we might as well have taken it to the zoo!" 

"I wish we had done that. I'm still going to report them. To--to the EPA, or the ASPCA, or the World Wildlife Fund. Or something." She took his arm, and gave it a squeeze. He was cold to the touch, but his biceps were firm. She felt a strange thrill. Had he always been so cut? So defined? She wanted to touch him some more. _Would he take off his shirt,_ she wondered, _if I asked him to? On the wet grass, under a tree, I don't care. We could be together._ The thought was accompanied by a terrible rush of urgency. 

_ If they catch you, they are going to keep you for a long time, and it will get very ugly-_

Her brain fritzed out. She clicked back to soft sound of Jess sighing. "Sure. Report them. So they can get a fine." 

She stared at him vacantly. She wasn't sure what they had been talking about. She tried to focus on the matter at hand. What was it? _Damn pheromones! Stupid Hartzke brothers! Why did they have to make him sweat so much?!_ With dexterity that surprised herself, she picked up the thread: "But, I have to do _something._ I have to at least call!" 

"As soon as you see a phone booth, you do that." 

Rory was appalled. The idea of rescuing the animals had been the one thing holding her up. They were _animals._ They had to be rescued! Was he saying nobody cared? _He_ didn't seem to. Didn't he care that the brothers were trafficking in protected wildlife? _A fine? _ She felt sick inside. The Hartzkes were untouchable. 

Her stomach twisted, and she started to feel weird, flighty panic. Her head was swimming, and her chest hurt. She was afraid that if she started to cough she'd bend double, collapsing to her knees. "I think I need a minute, here." Her voice was husky, and she didn't want to look at him. "I think I'm going to cry." 

"Okay," he said uncertainly. "Do you want me to do something?" 

She covered her face, to hide her eyes. "No!" she moaned into the small mask of her cupped hands. _ "Stay away!"_

She knew he was there. She could feel him. He was quiet behind her, and for a little while, he just let her cry.   
  


~ * ~

To be continued . . .

  
  
  
  
  
  


A/N:   
Hi there. Thanks for reading. Thanks to Kasman, for consulting on a beta issue. I only gave her a small bit of text, so I have to be clear - the errors are my responsibility. Speaking of errors, thanks to Judy, for pointing out that I had been referring to the Pine Barrens as the 'Pine Badlands.' Thanks to the person who nominated this story at The Proud and Prejudiced Fanfiction Awards. Thanks tothe readers, for your thoughtful reviews. I hope folks follow the links back to your profiles, and read your stories, too(if they aren't already reading them). Finally, a special thank you to AvidTVfan, for being a great reader, and a tireless supporter of this story and many others.   
  



	18. 18

18. 

There was a sharp crack, and she jerked up her head. "Wha-?" She was standing on moist, spongy ground, in the midst of dense bushes with bristly leaves. There were tall trees, gathered in clusters. The trees were whispering. "Jess?" She was frightened. Louder, she said, "Jess!" 

There was a dry rattle behind her, the sound of paper. She jumped and spun around. Jess pushed his way through the bushes. "What?!" 

"Where _were_ you?" 

"What are you talking about? I told you I had to go into the bushes. You said 'okay.'" 

Under the heavy brow, his eyes were an endless black. Fleetingly, Rory wanted to touch his forehead, with just the tip of her finger, at his temple. There was a zig in his hairline. She blinked. "I don't know where we are." 

"But-" Frowning, he seemed mystified. He rubbed the back of his neck. Gradually, his face changed, until he wore an expression of compassion. "Rory," he said patiently. "We're following the path now. Sort of. Walking parallel to it." Reaching out, he almost touched her cheek. He let his hand fall away. Very gently, he asked, "Don't you remember?" 

"No." 

"I said, 'Ah-hah! Vindicated!'" 

Rory suspected he was trying to manage her, jolly her along, and for some reason that made her irritable. She raised her chin, scowling at him. "Pardon?" 

"I found one of my markers." Expectant, he gave her the opportunity to indicate that she was following. But Rory was bewildered; she only shook her head. Jess raised an eyebrow and dug in one of his front pockets. He held out his hand. There was a pale scrap of bandage wound between his fingers. 

Rory's heart sped up. She was unwilling to believe these events had transpired, and that she had participated in them. Was she going crazy? "I--I don't remember," she said uneasily. 

"You said, 'Very impressive.'" Jess gave her a lopsided smile. "It was snotty." 

She shook her head. _"No."_   
  
"Jeez." Now he sounded worried. "Let me finish my business, and we'll get a move on." 

"Wait!" She grabbed his arm, startling him. She was aware of his quick heart, saw his throat jump as he swallowed. She drew close enough to whisper. "There's someone out there!" 

"What?" Under her hand, his arm was tense. He peered over her head. 

"I heard a noise." 

Jess let out a tired sigh. "Me. That was just me." 

She pointed. "It was over there." 

"Quiet," he hissed, listening. He shook his head. "Nothing." 

"Oh, there was _something._" 

"An animal," he said uncertainly. 

In the dark, the gaps between the trees were only marginally less black than the tree trunks. Rory squinted, trying to discern a human shape. Anybody could be out there, following, tracking them, someone woodsy and dangerous and capable of being quiet. She was tired, Jess was sick, and they were both stupid about the forest. They wouldn't even know. She gripped his arm tightly. "There's a _person_," she whispered nervously. "A person who is looking for us." 

"Could be." He passed his free hand over his eyes. "Could be someone on the path." He fingered the cut on his forehead, wincing. "We have to be quieter." He leaned in, and spoke directly in her ear. "Both of us, but especially you. When you get upset, you raise your voice." 

"When you get upset," she observed, "you lower yours." 

"I don't mean to get upset." His lips brushed her ear. "Not with you."   
  
"I know." She drew a shaky breath, leaning into him. 

"It's only . . . I'm tired." He slid an arm around her back, and pressed his lips to the top of her head. 

"Mmm," said Rory, reflecting that there was something fine about his neck. It was solid, so different from her own. It held his head up nicely. Jess's chin was rough with dark stubble, but at the side, under the sharp corner of his jaw, the skin was soft. Almost delicate. Rory wanted to draw it into her mouth, between her front teeth. She wanted to make her mark on him. 

"So tired," Jess repeated. 

"Oh, Jess . . . I know that." She put her hand on his chest. 

"And I _still_ have to go into the bushes." He disentangled himself. 

"Please don't leave me alone!" 

"God." He ran a hand over his chin, seeming uncomfortable. "Some things should remain shrouded in mystery." 

"Please!" 

He sighed, and held aside a curtain of vines. "After you."   
  


Not too long after that, Jess said, "Huh." 

Rory stood slightly behind him, facing away. He had reached back, and was clutching a handful of her sleeve. Being tethered was comforting. Fading in and out, she was afraid she'd close her eyes one too many times and lose him.   
  
"I guess I just thought I had to. I mean, I _did_ drink . . . from the stream. . . . " When he let go to zip up, she made an anxious sound. Over his shoulder he said, "I'm sticking to you like glue." He turned back to her. "I don't think there's anybody there. But we have to stay away from the path." 

"Okay." 

"How are you doing?" 

"Fine." 

"I guess that's the only acceptable answer." He looked ahead, groaning, "Man, I wish we had big freaking machetes." 

"I wish–" She broke off. There were too many things to wish for. A horse. A magic carpet. A flying bed. Her own bed. She sighed sadly. 

Jess took her hand, tugging. "Stay with me." 

A branch swooped in like it was spring-loaded. It hit Rory in the cheek, bringing tears to her eyes. She made a sharp sound. With a hand on her hip, Jess swept her in behind him. "Just bring up the rear," he instructed. "That's your job for now. But keep talking, so I know you're there."   
  
"Oh . . . okay." Indistinctly, Rory wondered if she should point out that they weren't lined up with where they had been before Jess made his abbreviated pit stop. Here the bushes were wildly overgrown. The trees had the appearance of being undernourished. There were a lot of them, and they were skinny, and close together. Jess had to force his way through the underbrush. It was hard work, and with apprehension, Rory saw that his bare arms were getting cut up. 

She looked back over her shoulder. There was no evidence anyone had passed this way recently. She turned her head, and the spindly tip of a branch slid neatly into her ear. She froze. The little limb was an invader, penetrating her without her consent. She was afraid it was alive with malicious intent, and would send science fiction tendrils into her brain. It was easy to imagine all her private thoughts and secrets exposed as it probed, violating her. After a moment, she collected herself, smiling feebly at her silliness. She slapped the branch away. Stupid thing. It could have punctured her eardrum. 

She followed Jess. He seemed to have a clear sense of purpose. She tried to walk where he walked, although his stride was longer, and he wasn't wearing slippery wet saddle shoes without any traction. She knew she was being unfair, beset as she was, with a secret lack of confidence. Either she should speak up, or she should trust him. She had wanted Jess to lead. Now that he was actually doing it, shouldn't she let him? All roads led to Rome. The two of them were in one place, and their destination--the service road--was in another. The issue was covering the distance in between. It didn't matter how they wove their way through the trees. They needed to head in the correct _direction_.   
  
Yawning, Rory rubbed her eyes. It was too much effort to question Jess's leadership, and she wasn't sure it was necessary, especially since she was so tired that her headache was practically bulging out her eyes. She closed the gap, and she and Jess were again walking side-by-side. Instead of pestering, what she said to him was: "Tell me something. Something quiet." 

Jess touched the corner of his mouth, where it was puffy. "I had this friend, Anthony Deguara. He tried to bite the cap off a bottle of Bud Lite. He had to get twenty-four stitches in his mouth." 

"Twenty-four stitches!" 

"Uh-huh." 

"In his mouth?" 

"Well, maybe he got twenty-four stitches someplace else. I know he got twenty-four stitches _somewhere_. It might have been less in his mouth." 

"A lot of stitches in your crowd." 

He shrugged. "Life. Stuff happens." 

"I guess so," she said morosely, falling back. She felt safer in his shadow. 

They continued to talk, keeping their voices low, but they weren't being all that quiet. The bushes shook and creaked, clutching at them with many-jointed skeletal fingers. Often, there would be a ringing snap, as Jess bent back a branch.   
  
_He broke me a bough of the blossoming peach that was out of the way and hard to reach,_ Rory thought, recalling the poem 'The Spring and the Fall,' by Edna St. Vincent Millay. She shook her head in wonderment, hardly able to believe Jess had made his way through this labyrinthian nightmare once already. Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she tried to imagine what it must have been like. At that point, he hadn't even had a flashlight.   
  
The night breeze was cold on her nearly naked legs. Another branch whacked her, and as she swatted it off, she was washed over by an odd sensation. Her knees became weak. High heat burned in her face, and her chest got impossibly tight. _He did it for me._   
  
She picked her way carefully, her skirt swishing with the roll of her hips. She had her eyes fixed on his back. _He said he would never leave me. He came for me._ A vine with broad leaves trailed across her shoulder, pricking her with thorns. _He loves me._

She was shocked. This was more than a couple of teenagers earnestly mouthing the words as they gazed twitlike into each other's eyes. Jess had gambled everything to get her back, and he hadlost. "My God," she breathed. 

Jess looked over his shoulder. "You okay?" Pale in his fatigue, he was still darker than she was. A few inches taller. He had narrow hips, and pleasantly wide shoulders. His smiles were rare and hard won, but warmed her to her toes. Rory wanted him. She wanted him to belong to her. 

"Rory?" he questioned, his face etched with concern, and Rory realized that he _did_ belong to her. He had all along. 

_What did I ever do,_ she wondered,_ to make him love me so? Because . . . I really don't think I did anything._   
  
"I," she started. "You-" 

Jess raised an eyebrow. "Are you okay?" 

Lines from Millay's 'Sonnet XI' were racing through her head: _Love in the open hand, no thing but that, ungemmed, unhidden, wishing not to hurt, as one should bring you cowslips in a hat swung from the hand, or apples in her skirt, I bring you, calling out as children do: "Look what I have! ~~ And these are all for you."_

All she could say was: "I . . . you. . . . " 

"Are you falling asleep?" 

_"No,"_ she said, with some effort. She was trying to tell him something. Why couldn't she spit it out? 

"Don't fall asleep again." 

She closed her eyes in frustration. She had to tell him! She just didn't know _what._   
  
"Whoops," he said. "Eyes open. C'mon, Rory." 

She opened her eyes. "I'm--I'm all right," she managed, finally. Her throat hurt, and her voice was thick. "I'm right behind you." 

"Were you ever fingerprinted?" 

"What? No! Why?" 

They followed the alternate path, the unpath, no path at all. There was only Jess's private mental image of where the actual path was, and according to him, it was that they were mirroring. Where they walked, the grasses grew wild, winding up their ankles. In front, Jess bore the brunt of it, breaking the trail.   
  
"Did Lorelai ever get you fingerprinted for one of those child protection, Code Adam type things?" 

"Code Adam?" The bushes were close. They made a canopy overhead. Rory lost sight of the stars, and her heart rose in her throat. She felt smothered. The occasional drooping pine slithered a branch across her head, and every time it happened, she jumped. The branches were full of needles, and enormous, like malformed hands. Her own hands were damp, from trailing in the waxy leaves of the bushes. She had tried holding her hands up, out of the way, but her arms were too tired. 

"Not Code Adam. Shit, I'm tired. That's a thing we have at work-" 

"What--what work?" Hearing her mother's name had made her upset. She didn't know why he had said it. 

"It's my job to check the parking lot-" 

"Excuse me?" The night was redolent of damp earth and gummy pine resin. Then there was Jess. She breathed him in as a way of comforting herself, but she was beginning to think Jess was losing his marbles. He wasn't making sense. Her heart went out to him. After everything he had been through, it was amazing he was still on his feet. _You're the only reason he's still on his feet,_ she told herself, and knew that she was right. 

"It's always a false alarm," he confided, glancing back at her. "Some lady's trying on bras, and her kid makes his big break for the toys." 

"Uh . . . okay." She picked what she hoped wasn't a spider web out of her mouth. She had no clue what he was talking about. Kids? Toys? Jess worked at Luke's Diner. There were no kids or toys. Luke _hated_ kids and toys. 

"I would _love_ to bust one of those pedophilic bastards. I'd take his freaking head off." He turned to her. "Watch your hair. Wait, you're caught. There. Anyway, I wouldn't want a kid to get snatched just so I could do it, but you know what I mean-" 

"No, I _don't_ know what you mean." Rubbing her head where the branch had pulled her hair, Rory continued, "Who's a pedophile?" 

He ran a hand through his own hair, blinking. "If only I had picked up my last paycheck-" 

Rory picked a bit of twig out of her tangled mop. "Jess, you're rambling. What are you talking about?" 

". . . none of this would have happened." 

"None of what?" 

His eyes flashed angrily. "None of _this._" He touched her lip. 

Rory's lip was sore, so she turned her face. "I . . ." She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "What are you talking about?" 

Jess backed away. _"Money."_ His voice was rich with disgust. "It's all about money." 

"What?" 

"You know," he said, "in the end, it will all be about the fact that you come from money, and I don't." 

Now Rory was really confused. "I don't come from money." 

He snorted. "Yeah, right." 

"Jess, I _don't._ My--my mother was a _chambermaid._" 

"Sure," he said. "For a joke. To piss off her parents." 

"That wasn't the way it was," she said stiffly. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about." 

Looking away, he waved a dismissive hand. "Never mind. _Shit._ It doesn't matter." He focused on her again. "But, were you printed for a fingerprinting program? For little kids?" 

Rory frowned. "I don't think so." She shrugged. "I mean, maybe. I don't know. What difference does it make?" 

"Hey, did you ever read anything by Andrew Vachss?" 

"Who?" Her head was swimming. _I can barely put one foot in front of the other,_ she thought, feeling a little desperate. _How the heck can he be hyper?_

"Andrew Vachss," he said impatiently. Rory shook her head. Jess blew out a breath, making an irritated noise. "Never mind. No sleigh rides, no gothic manors. He'd be too gritty for you." 

"Too gritty," she said wryly. "Sheesh." 

"No _moors._" 

"Jess, stop it." 

"So, look . . . say that house gets raided." 

"Sorry--which house?" 

"Jeez, Rory, which house do you think?" 

"Oh," she said. "Sorry." 

"So, for whatever reason, say that house did get raided. If you've never been printed, it wouldn't matter if your prints were all over the place." 

"Raided?" 

"Who you were . . . your _identity._ It wouldn't come up." Jess turned back to his trail breaking. 

"Raided." Rory stood still for a moment, not sure she followed his reasoning. "_Oh._ You're going to call? The police? But you said we couldn't!" She hurried in behind him. 

There were tall ferns around them now, crinkled and autumn dry. Jess swatted the long fronds, shoving them out of his way, and the leaves shook with a starchy noise that made Rory remember the crinoline she had worn under her debutante gown. _ And I wore long gloves._ She touched her neck. _My hair was up. Everyone said . . . Dean said . . . I looked like a princess. . . ._

Breathing hard, Jess pushed his way forward. "No," he huffed. "I said _you_ can't call." 

"How come you can call and I can't?" 

"Don't be a dingbat." 

"Don't be Archie Bunker." 

"Coming from the girl who used to date a psycho stalker, that's really fucking funny." 

"Stop it!" she cried, and an image of Dean, handsome in his tux and tails, blew away like smoke. "Why are you being so mean?" 

"Shut up," he snapped. 

"That's very degrading to me," she informed him. "And it's not even true." She followed him, watching where she placed her feet. "You know," she said after a minute, "in the beginning, when I liked you so much, it was because you were _liberated._" 

He looked at her over his shoulder. "In the beginning?" 

"Yes," she said firmly. "A liberated guy. Talking to you wasn't like . . . like forcing my way through a thick cloud of screwed up, totally stupid ideology. I didn't feel like I had to educate you about every little thing. You already knew things, and you had your own ideas, too. And if you opened a door for me, it was because you wanted to, and if I happened to open a door for you, you weren't totally emasculated." 

"Well, this is the real world. Where men are-" 

_"Mean,"_ she said. 

"And women are-" 

"Under siege," she finished. 

He shrugged. "Sometimes." 

"I guess it all depends on the company you keep." 

"Stars Hollow," Jess mused. "I can hardly believe a place like that exists. It's like . . . it's like a fairytale. Growing up there, you were so sheltered. It didn't prepare you for the real world." 

"This is _not_ the real world." 

"You've never been tested before." 

"Oh." She felt angry. "Is that what this is?" 

"No," he replied, sighing. "It's a big fucking mistake." He rolled his head on his shoulders, making a face when his neck creaked. "You liked me from the beginning?" 

"No," she lied. "The first time I met you, I thought you were an arrogant creep." 

"Hah," Jess said. 

"Whatever," Rory muttered. Then she had to cough and cough. She sniffed, wiping her nose on the sleeve of his jacket. "What--what did you think when you first met me?" 

He grinned. "I tried to get you to go out the window that night, too." 

"Oh." She flushed. 

"You can't call the cops because you're out of it now," Jess decreed. "What's left is between me and Len Hartzke." 

"What do you mean--what's left? Jess?" But he didn't answer. "I think it's between _me_ and Len Hartzke," she said. 

Jess rounded on her. "What are you thinking?" 

Rory took a hasty step back. "Don't ask me what I'm thinking," she gulped, although she hadn't been thinking anything. "It's none of your business." 

"I'm packing you back to Stars Hollow," he said grimly. "So freaking quick your head will spin." 

"No!" she cried. "I can't go back! Don't you understand?!" 

"Lower your voice!" he hissed. 

"It's too dangerous! I won't put my mother at risk!" 

"Quiet!" 

"I can't have her see me like this!" 

"Do you want them to find us?!" 

"I want to be with you!" she wailed. 

"Dammit, be quiet!" 

"I'm never going back! Never! Never!" 

"Rory, you-" 

"You can't make me," she said dizzily. "I won't go." Jess made a grab for her, almost catching the front of her jacket. Rory backed up in hurry. He tried again, and she twisted away. Rory looked from side to side. She was hemmed in by the thick underbrush. Her heart was speeding, and she was short of breath. A wind alive with the scent of green balsam wove through the trees, dancing the ferns and bushes. It smelled like a clean house. It smelled like home. Rory wanted to cry, but Jess advanced on her scarily. She screamed. 

She stumbled over a root that was growing out of the ground. Her arms were stretched out in front of her, elbows stiff and aching. Jess had her wrists clamped together in one hand. He was towing her. 

"Stop," she said thickly. She tried to wrench her wrists free. _"Stop."_ She tripped and nearly fell. "Please! You're hurting me." 

He did stop, and turned, still holding her tight. She didn't know what was going on. What did he think was he doing? _"Let go,"_ she groaned, straining. She looked up at him, blinking through a miasma of stupidity. She gasped. 

There were three scratches on his cheek, deep furrows. The kind of scratches a girl would make with her fingernails. 

"Are you awake now?" His voice was low, grating. "Are you calm?"   
  
"What-?" 

"Are you awake?" he said more forcefully. "Are you calm?" 

"Did--did I do that?" she asked in a very small voice. She was afraid of the answer. 

He held up her wrist. "This little hand."   


  
Jess had tucked her hair under the collar of the jacket, to stop it catching in the branches. "Leave it," he ordered, when she went to pull it out. "I don't want to stop every five minutes to unwind you." 

They passed a shrub with tall, dead flower stalks. Restless, uneasy, Rory ran a hand over it, pinching the desiccated petals between her fingers. "My head hurts," she said, under her breath. She didn't want to complain too loudly. She was totally freaked. She wanted to tell him she was sorry, but she didn't remember attacking him, had no idea why she had. The dark night sucked at her, fluttering her skirt, stinging her eyes. Why couldn't she remember? She felt loopy. Like she was floating. 

She coughed into her hand. Tentatively, she glanced at Jess. "I--I could go in front," she offered. 

"No," he said shortly. 

"To--to make the trail. To give you a break for a while." 

"No." 

He wouldn't let go of her, not even for a second. She couldn't refrain from making a mewling sound of protest when he took her by the wrist, so he held her sleeve, and sometimes, her collar. He didn't consult her when he decided to tuck his hand into the waistband of her skirt, and secure her that way. He dragged her behind him, using his left forearm to push away the branches. When there was enough room, he made her walk at his side. He didn't seem to want hold her hand. 

For a long time, they didn't talk. When Rory could, she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, feeling odd and anxious. Jess's jaw was tight. She assumed he was angry. He had every reason to be. But when he spoke to her finally, his voice was mild, and he didn't sound angry at all. Simply tired, and a little sad. 

"I wish . . . my knife. I wish you hadn't lost it there." 

Some time earlier, long before the Scratching Incident(as she had come to think of it), Jess had asked after his knife. He wanted to know why she hadn't used it in the shed. That had set Rory to wondering about her razor blade, and whether it was indeed in one of his back pockets. Looking at his butt, trying to see a telltale outline, she had become wrapped up in thoughts of how _nice_ he looked back there. It was really cool the way his jeans hung off his hips. Even though there was a rip at the back of his knee, those were some nice jeans, on _very_ nice, if slightly bowlegged legs. She had fallen into fantasizing about circumstances under which she might get to see those legs again, and such thoughts had pushed the little razor blade right out of her head.   
  
But when Jess had asked, she reasoned he wouldn't accept that she didn't _remember_ how she had lost his knife. She didn't want to talk about the fact that she was having trouble remembering things, so she had fabricated a story. She told him that she'd put the knife down on the coffee table, and left it behind. It could even be true. 

"I'm sorry," she told him now. Was he making a list of all the bad things she had done? It was going to be a long list. 

"How can you just lose a knife?" 

"It happens." 

"What if they decide to-?" He inhaled sharply. "It has _my_ prints on it, and-" 

"I'm--I'm sure they could tell." Rory stifled a yawn, squirming in discomfort. Even though her skirt was looser about her waist than it should have been, his knuckles were pressing into the bruise on her stomach. _Len Hartzke punched me,_ she thought, startled. _I couldn't breathe. I fell on the floor._   
  
"Huh?" Jess stopped. He was panting, and unsteady. He withdrew his hand, and Rory took a quick step to the side. She hoped he wouldn't put it back. He seemed distracted. Perhaps he would forget. 

"Ah . . . the police. Like . . . your prints would be _under_ the prints of whoever used it last. Or something." She patted his arm in what she hoped was a comforting manner. "I'm sure it's not an issue." 

"It was a good knife." 

"I couldn't pick the lock with it. To the basement." 

"Did you try to do that?" 

"Yeah. I thought maybe you were down there." Jess turned to her, smiling a funny half smile. He found her hand, and gave it a squeeze. Rory guessed he was done being mad, and she felt relieved. Jess plodded forward, and she hurried up to be beside him. She was bored with the knife. If they went on talking about it, he would only keep worrying. Once Jess started to obsess on a particular topic, he never gave up. She did want him to keep talking though, so she said: "Tell me a story." 

A genuine smile creased his face. He laughed indulgently, and her heart leapt. "An old man hit me with his stick." 

"Excuse me?" 

With a hand on the small of her back, he guided her around a tree. "I was flat on the sidewalk." He put his hand on the top of her head, pushing lightly. Pliant, she bent to pass under a low branch. 

"Sidewalk?" 

"In front of the Palace. You--you were gone. Long gone." 

"I wasn't gone," she whispered. "I was _taken._" 

"He said, 'Get up, boy. Get _up,_ boy!' He poked me with his cane. And then he let his little dog pee on me." 

"No," she breathed. 

"No." He laughed again, softly. They were passing through thick underbrush, and to their left, the trees grew tight, forming a wall. "There was no dog." 

"Was there an old man?" 

"Yup." 

"Are you making this up?" 

"A little bit." 

Her heart sped up, and her face got hot and tight. "Don't tell me lies," she pleaded. "Only tell me things that are true." 

"Oh, hey. I was just trying to make you laugh." 

"It's not a laughing matter!" She was on the verge of tears. "Was there an old man, or wasn't there?" 

"There was no dog. I wish there had been. I like dogs." He stopped short. "No!" 

"Holy moly," Rory said unhappily. They were fenced in. On the left, the trees had lined up like a fortress. To the right, there were thick bushes, but on the other side of those was the path, and they needed to stay away from that. In front, there was an impossible jumble. Jess shined the flashlight on it, whistling in amazement. There were trees piled on top of each other, with stiff, dead branches sticking out. The crazy thing rested on a base of logs covered with gray, powdery moss. 

Rory tried to make sense of what she was seeing. Images flitted through her mind, a bird watching platform from a nature documentary; a cottage with a thatched roof; a medieval peasant with a bundle of twigs on his back; an Acme contraption by Wile E. Coyote; van Gogh's _Haystack in Rainy Day._ None of them fit. 

"What the fuck-?" Jess seemed confused. 

Her eyes wide, she asked, "How did you get around it the first time?" 

"I _didn't._" Unnecessarily, he added, "This is not a good sign." 

"It's not _new,_" she observed. 

"No. No way." 

"Are we lost?" 

"I'm sure we're not." He pointed. "The Hartzke's path is right over there." He ducked his head, murmuring, "I hope." 

Nervous at the mention of the Hartzkes, Rory crossed her arms over her chest. "But we were going the right way." She gave Jess a hard look. He was gazing at the strange pile of logs and branches in a manner that Rory found worrisome. "Jess! We were going the right way, weren't we?" 

Shrugging, he scratched his chin. "We're in the woods. That's why you need a trail. You go two feet to the left, and you're in a different goddam world." 

"We haven't found any more of your markers," she began tentatively. 

"One more," he corrected. "I found one when you were- " 

"Oh." Eyes downcast, Rory blinked back sudden tears. "I didn't know." 

He turned to her, and must have taken in her expression. "Oh, hey. Rory, come on." He put an arm around her, rubbing her back. "It's okay." 

"It's _not_ okay," she whispered. 

"You were scared," he said. "I should have seen it coming." 

"I'm so sorry." 

"I shouldn't have tried to grab you. I was afraid you'd run away." 

"Something's wrong with me," she said quickly, her face hot. She felt humiliated. "I--I don't . . . I can't think. I feel stupid. I don't understand." 

"I do," he said heavily, and she looked up at him, surprised. 

"You do?" 

"I'm not handling you properly. All I do is scare you more." Jess drew a sharp breath through his teeth. "It's so unfair, Rory. How ironic is it that I'm the one who's scaring you, when I . . . when I _remember-_" He broke off, choking. 

Rory took a hesitant step. She wanted to take him in her arms, but she wasn't sure if it was okay to touch him. 

"When I . . . when I was a kid. . . ." He held his hands out, palms down, staring at them. They were shaking. Rory was afraid for him. He was worn out. The Hartzkes had terrorized him. It was possible that he had been more scarred by the experience than she, because she had passed her time in their company in a sort of fog, and when she had thought of Jess, she had mostly been angry. But he had gone into it with his own demons, and all the while, he'd been so afraid for her. . . . 

"And even now, I can't sleep through the night. Oh, yeah. I understand where you're coming from. I know _all_ about it." 

"Know . . . what?" She kept her face blank, lowering her head. She wanted to make it as easy for him as she could. She didn't want him to see the fear in her eyes, and interpret it as a judgment about him. This wasn't about her anymore, and the way she reacted was going to affect everything between them. 

"I--I dream," he faltered. "I have terrible dreams." 

"Jess," she said softly. 

"I know . . . what it's like to have someone doing something to you that you don't want them to do." His voice got rough, and Rory stole a glance. "You can't stop them. You're nothing but an ant and they can squish you, if they want. They control everything about you." Jess was stiff with tension. He was looking over her head. But his face! Rory felt a sharp stab of dread, deep in her gut. She knew then that he didn't _want_ to tell her. He had only decided to say it to prove to her that he understood. 

_I don't know if he's picked the right time,_ Rory thought anxiously. _Another time, another place, maybe this would be good for him. But he's weak right now. He's got to hold it together so I can get him out of these woods. He's in too much danger, here. Me . . . if they catch me . . . they're going to . . . hang onto me for a while. _ She swallowed thickly, clinging to her rational thought process. _I might have another opportunity to escape. But Jess--he won't get a second chance._

"Would--would you think any less of me," Jess's voice was halting, uncertain, "if I told you-" 

"No," she interrupted. 

He looked down at her, a crease between his eyes. "No," he repeated. 

"No," she said emphatically. She wanted to make sure he understood what she was saying. He didn't have to tell her. He didn't have to say it to satisfy her curiosity, or to make her feel better. "Under no circumstances would it make me think any less of you." 

"And when Len Hartzke-" 

"I love you," she said loudly. 

"He . . . " Jess choked, clenching and unclenching his fists. 

_ "I love you,"_ she said firmly. 

"Oh, God," he gasped, stumbling back. "How could you?" 

"But I do," she informed him, and stepped forward. 

She was breathless when he yanked her to his chest, arms tight around her, hands on her back. He mumbled: "Nobody ever cared what happened to me. I've always been alone. You . . . I love you, and I've _never_ loved anybody before. I wanted you _with_ me . . . do you understand? I never meant to put you in danger. I thought I was taking you out of danger!" 

"I know," she murmured. "I know." 

"Christ, Rory . . . I needed you so much. . . ." 

Rory rested her head on his shoulder, listening to him talk. When he ran out of words, she kissed him tenderly, and ruffled his hair. 

"Dear Jess," she whispered, and kissed him again. 

She asked him: "But where did all this come from, these logs and stuff? Do you think there was a fire?" 

"I don't know." Jess was subdued. He wouldn't look at her. Maybe he was too tired to be embarrassed, but Rory saw him pinch the bridge of his nose, covering his eyes with his hand. "Maybe somebody cut them." 

"Either that, or elephants." Rory was pretending to concentrate on the matter at hand. By mutual, silent consent, they were not discussing his disclosure. It was not a matter to be evoked trivially. 

She traced her upper lip, with the tip of her finger. There was still the faintest taste of salt. 

"This is protected land," he explained, and Rory knew he was retreating to the place he felt most comfortable. Jess alternately bossed and coddled her, but Rory had come to realize that his sense of himself of as a man was fragile. He seemed to think that if he could somehow protect her, he was redeeming himself. Maybe he saw himself as the grubby stable boy, rather than the knight in shining armor, but to him, she had always been the princess in the tower. Rory suspected it had less to do with money, than with the fact that she'd had a life he envied, and people who had cared for her. Jess had seen all that, and desired her from afar, thinking she was unattainable. Now that he had her, he was stretched thin by his responsibility to her. In Rory's opinion, that was the problem with princesses. They were hard work. And there was way too much kidnaping involved.   
  
Out of the corner of her eye, Rory saw his hand go to the cut on his ribs. "You can't log here anymore," Jess continued. "At least, that was the impression I had. " 

"Do you think we can climb over?" 

"I don't think so." He approached the barrier. "What if you fell? You could break your neck." 

_Two seconds,_ she thought. _A person could break their neck in two seconds._ She closed her eyes. She experienced a rush, and her head felt squeezed. When she opened her eyes, she was leaning against the living room wall. She looked down at her hands. They were taped together. "No," she whispered. "Please, no." 

"Rory?" 

With tunnel vision, she saw that all three brothers were staring at her. "You know what we have to do," one of them said in a low voice.   
  
"What--what are you talking about?" she stuttered, but she hadn't had the courage to ask them that the first time, and they didn't answer now. The brothers stared at her coldly. The fear that had always been in Rory's gut came to life, roaring. She began gasping for air. 

"Rory? What is it? Are you fainting?" 

Jess reached for her arm and she flinched. "Don't do that!" he snapped. He caught her arm, and led her away. "Come on. Come." He got her to sit on the ground, and pushed her head between her knees. 

Rory was elsewhere. She was _watching._   
  
Buddy turned to Len. "I'll take care of it right now. It would take me two seconds." He might have been offering to run out for milk. 

"Oh . . ." She lifted her head. Jess turned to face her, and Rory's stomach churned with shame. The scratches she had made on his cheek were terrible. _He can't possibly go out in public. Everyone will think . . . everyone will think . . ._

"I think we should break through the bushes and head to the path." 

"No!" Rory yelled, and saw that she had scared him. "I won't go anywhere near there!" She was queasy. Why did he suddenly want to go on the path? He was the one who'd said they had to stay away. The path belonged to the Hartzke brothers. 

Jess tried to be reasonable. "Rory, we would have to go back, and then track really far west to avoid this. And every time we're away from the path-" 

"You don't understand," she moaned. "You weren't _there!_" 

Jess hadn't been in the upstairs hallway, when Buddy Hartzke had loomed over her, saying, "The lock can't keep me out. I can break down this door." Rory shuddered. Buddy Hartzke could break anything, and it would only take him two seconds. She began to cry. 

"I know you're tired," Jess started, sounding at a loss. 

Sobbing, she huddled in the wet grass, hugging her knees. "I asked him for _help._ I asked him so many times!" 

Jess crouched in front of her. He touched her leg. "Rory, what--who? I don't understand. Why won't you go to the path?" 

She couldn't explain. "He was nice to me." 

They climbed it. There was no other way. Rory refused to break through to the path, and Jess wouldn't go around. First they argued, both of them defending their positions with increasing hysteria, until in a moment of supreme incoherence, she actually offered to get on all fours, and let him use her back as a stepping stool.   
  
Jess threw his hands up in disgust, and dragged her roughly to her feet. Groaning, his arms shaking, he picked her up, and got her sidesaddle on a horizontal tree trunk. Rory swung her leg over, and perched uncomfortably. She held down her hand. He ignored it, and hoisted himself. The tree bobbed under their combined weight.   
  
"You go first," he said angrily. "And don't argue with me anymore, because so help me, I've had it. You're tiny. There's no reason for us both to fall through and be impaled, just because I break a branch." He shined the light ahead for her. Rory started across the uncertain surface, stopping short as he hissed, "And stay low!" 

Shifting, creaking, the odd structure was alternately sharp, and as springy as a circus net. She had to crawl on her hands and knees. It was very rough, but she was determined. They mustn't go back to the path! Breathing heavily, she made it to the other side, and waited. Jess had the flashlight, and she couldn't see what was below.   
  
He had a harder time. He was heavier, and little branches snapped under his weight. He did have the advantage of being able to pull himself properly. Sliding like a lizard, he advanced by inches. He had the mag light in his mouth, and Rory could hear him slurring, "Shtupid, shtupid--this is the kind of thing _idiots_ do! People who don't know any better!" 

Sitting with her leg dangling, Rory hoped he wasn't going to be too grouchy. She didn't want to get yelled at. Shifting, she felt her skirt tighten. It was caught on a branch. She jerked it free, tearing the hem. 

"Oh, no!" She didn't have a shirt anymore, and now she'd ripped her skirt twice. Her stockings were a ruin of rips and runs, and there were still half bands of duct tape on the outsides of her ankles. Pretty soon, she wouldn't have any clothes at all! 

"Good," Jess gasped, when he saw that she was waiting for him. "I'll help you get down." He sat up beside her, panting. "This is psycho!" 

"I'm sorry!" she said quickly, still anxious about her skirt. 

"No, this _thing._ I think it's man made. There's no other explanation. Rory, there's a hole down there." 

"Is it a grave?" 

He raised an eyebrow. "What would make you say that? Rory?" 

"They're so capricious," she said, over the high buzzing in her ears. She swayed a little. 

"Rory!" Jess made a sharp move toward her, checking himself as the branch creaked under his weight. 

"They--they decided our fates in two seconds," she began. 

"Christ, don't pass out!" 

"If they catch me, they're just going to lock me up." 

"Lock you up." He sounded ill. 

"Yeah," she said, faintly. She drew a vague shape in the air. "With--with a chain." 

"Rory, you can faint all you want when we're back on solid ground!" 

"If they catch _you,_ they're going to break your neck and bury you in the woods." 

"Is that what they told you?" 

"They're going to murder you," she said urgently. 

"Who said chains?" 

She swallowed. "They don't get to decide Jess! Who are they to decide?" 

"Chains," he repeated. "Rory, is that what they told you?" 

_"Murder,"_ she rejoined. "That's what I _know._ Please, get me down. We have to hurry!" 

"Okay," he said simply. He pointed the light below. Rory turned her face away. She had a headache. 

Even though she had shown him that her wrist was cut up and sore, Jess had his hand locked around it in a death grip, and was drawing her along that way. They crashed through black bushes, and wound through the trees, going much more quickly than they had before. Rory stumbled often. Her legs were heavy, and she couldn't feel her toes. She was coughing more regularly, hacking really, and her eyes were blurry. She blinked, trying hard to focus, and that was when she saw Paris. 

Paris walked through an archway made of roots and vines. She was all got up in white, and Rory thought the outfit was very becoming. She was a bit embarrassed. Paris looked cool and fresh and elegant. Her hair was like fine spun gold, falling straight and perfect down her back. Rory felt slutty and bedraggled. She coughed into her hand and said to Paris, "You look so beautiful." 

"This old thing?" Paris shrugged, but Rory could tell that she was pleased. 

"But Paris, that's so not like you. It's after Labor Day." 

Paris smiled. "Ah--but these are the Pine Barrens." 

"Oh," said Rory, frowning. "I guess it's all right. So, how've you been?"   
  
"Good," Paris said. "Really good. I met a guy at my cousin's Bat Mitzvah. He's a hottie." 

"Oh!" She was happy for Paris. She really was. Paris had a tendency to be humorless, but she worked really hard. You could always count on Paris to get the job done. She deserved a little fun. "What's his--what's–?" Rory forgot what she had been going to ask. 

"Rory?" said Jess, and Paris swore. 

"We're going to have to be quick. What a pain." She gave Jess the once over. "Get a load of him. He's looking a little peaked." 

"I will later," Rory promised. "Get a load, I mean. What's up?" 

"There are some things you've been forgetting." 

"I've been forgetting?" 

"What have you been forgetting?" asked Jess. 

"That's the problem," Paris said. "You don't know--so neither do I." 

"Like what?" Rory asked. "I can't imagine what you mean." 

"You just told me you forgot something," Jess said. 

Paris sighed in frustration. "What about the pictures?" 

"The picture?" 

"What picture?" said Jess. 

"No," said Paris, her voice sharp. "Pictures, plural." 

"There's a picture of Jess," Rory told her. "Len Hartzke showed me." 

"What?" Jess was in front of her. She hadn't seen him move. He gripped her by the upper arms. Paris craned her neck around Jess's shoulder. "What picture?" Jess said. "Rory?" 

She looked up at him. "What? What are you talking about?" 

"What are _you_ talking about?" 

"There's a picture," Rory said, and Paris groaned. 

"You're getting all confused," Paris said. "That's not what I wanted you to think about!" 

"I'm getting all confused," Rory repeated. 

"Just tell me about the picture," Jess said. 

"Pay attention to _me,_" snapped Paris.   
  
Rory cut her eyes to the side, and Jess gave her a shake. "Rory!" 

Paris was obviously very frustrated. "Dammit! There's another thing!" She was fading fast. 

"What?" said Rory. Now she could see right through Paris. It was eerie. She looked up at Jess, wondering if he would fade away, too. He was slightly more real, because his fingers were digging into the soft flesh of her upper arms. 

"Rory." He shook her again, and her teeth came together with a sharp click. "Rory!" 

"Guy Hartzke," Paris said faintly. "He went for a walk, and never came back." 

"Oh, God!" Jess laced his hands together on the top of his head. "I can't _handle_ this. I don't know what to _do!_" Rory was sitting in a knobby root system, against a rough tree trunk. She was leaning on her hip, legs to the side, ankles crossed. It was the only way she could sit that didn't hurt her rear end. She had her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her fingers felt odd, bigger than normal, puffy. Unfamiliar. She held her hands up to her face. They looked the same. "Strange," she said to herself. 

Jess crouched in front of her, and took her chin in his hand. He looked into her eyes. "Rory, I--I think you're really sick." He laid the back of his hand across her cheek. 

"Do you?" she said indifferently. The topic didn't interest her much. 

"And . . . do you remember we talked about this? You're sort of . . . traumatized." 

"Well, that would be understandable," Rory said. 

"We can't triage this situation, out here in the Pine Barrens." 

"Of course not," Rory said agreeably. 

"So, how about this? We're going to keep going." 

"Hey," she said, as the thought occurred to her. "How are _you?_" 

"Oh, fine," he said, a little wildly. "Never been better." 

Rory smiled. "Well, that's good, then!" 

"Okay." Jess sighed. He took her upper arm, and pulled her up. 

"Ow!" she said angrily. 

"What's the matter now?" 

"Stop trying to cop a feel!" 

"Are you serious?" 

"If you want to touch my breasts, all you have to do is ask! Do you think I care?" 

"Oh, God," Jess said. 

"All you have to do is say: 'Rory, take off your jacket,' and I'll do it! You don't have to hurt me!" 

"I wasn't trying to hurt you," he said stonily. He let out a breath, and looked at her, a sharp crease between his eyebrows. "Rory, do you really think I'm trying to hurt you? Because that would be a fairly major problem." 

"I have a headache," she said uncertainly. 

"Are we back to not touching?" He pointed to his cheek. 

Rory bit her lip. "Maybe." She crossed her arms over her chest. "Jess, you would never . . . you wouldn't . . ." She looked away. "Do you love me?" 

"Yes," he said. "I do." 

"Len Hartzke had a picture of you." 

"What are you asking?" His voice was tight. 

Rory frowned. She felt like her head was filling up with clouds. Was Jess nearly crying? Faintly, she knew there was a reason he was upset, but for the life of her, she couldn't remember what it was. "I couldn't tell . . . I couldn't see. . . ." 

He interrupted. "A picture of me doing what?" 

Everything snapped into a sharper focus. Rory took a deep breath. "You were in the bedroom. Across from where I was." 

"Ah." 

"There was . . . a girl." 

He sighed. "Yeah." 

"You have to tell me," she said. "You have to tell me everything." 

"I went into the kitchen to get a beer." His voice was soft, and the wind carried his words away, through the trees. Even though she was walking at his side, Rory had to strain to hear him. "I wanted a Labatt's or something, not that watery shit from the keg. Then I had to take a--I had to use the john. I don't know why I didn't just go back outside." He waved his hand. "Obviously, there's an entire forest out here. Everybody else was doing it outside." 

Rory grimaced, not so much from fastidiousness, but because she knew firsthand that was true. 

"I went upstairs." He sighed. "Afterward, I got turned around or whatever. I started poking around, looking at stuff. I did that for a while. I don't know how long. I was pretty wasted. And there was a room, and there was a naked girl in the bed. Big deal, right? It's a party. So, I'm standing there like an idiot, looking at her, and Eugene comes up behind me-" 

"Eugene?" Rory asked. 

"Buddy's real name is Eugene," he said. 

"Oh." 

"I didn't know there was a picture. I was pretty wasted. . . . " 

"You already said that." 

"Yeah." He put a hand to his ribs. "I'm not surprised. Buddy likes . . . he likes . . . to take pictures. . . ." He trailed off, staring at her. 

Rory met his eyes, her mouth a firm line. She shook her head. 

Jess said, "You told me you were unconscious-" 

"No, I wasn't," she said quickly. 

"You--you don't know-" 

"That never happened!" 

"I have to go back," he whispered. 

She looked up at him, horrified. _"No."_

"This will ruin your life," he said. "All your plans." 

"My life-" She broke off. How could she possibly stand in front of him and tell him that her life was already ruined, that her plans didn't matter, were worthless, finished? "I don't care," she announced. "It--it really doesn't affect me." 

"I see," Jess said stiffly. 

"We--we are going to get out of here. We are going to leave this place, and never look back." 

"All right," Jess said. 

"That's my final word." 

"All right," he said. 

"I mean it," she warned, putting her hands to her head because she was dizzy. "Tell me-" She blinked several times, and got her eyes in focus. She saw that he was frowning at her. "Tell me the rest." 

"For fuck's sake!" he exploded. "We're fucking through with this stupid fucking story! It's not about _anything._"   
  
Rory stared him down, her eyes flinty.   
  
"Fine. Fine! So, Buddy goes: 'Len is teaching her a lesson. For tonight, anybody who wants her can have her.'" 

"Oh, God." Rory turned away, putting her hand over her mouth. She sucked air in through her nose, willing herself not to throw up. 

"Look, I really don't want to tell you a story like this-" 

"Tell me the rest." Her voice was muffled by her hand. 

"It's not for you," he pleaded. "You shouldn't hear things like this." 

That was too much. She laughed, and didn't feel sick anymore. "Don't you think we're past all that, now?" 

He was silent for a moment, and then he said, "No. I _don't_ think we're past all that. I think this whole thing that's happened, this thing that's happened to _you_ . . . I don't even know how to say it. It's different from you, and what you're supposed to be. And right now you have this wrong idea that you're stuck in all this depravity, and that's your life now, and you can just pile on layer after layer because you've already sunk this low and it doesn't matter anymore. But you're wrong, Rory–" 

"Oh, shut up," she said. "You're stalling." 

"Well, yeah. Sure. I don't want to say it, and I don't think you should hear it. Sue me." 

_ "Tell me."_

He walked ahead, not looking at her. "Buddy said: 'Anybody who wants her can have her.' So he leaves, and I'm alone with this girl. I almost left. But, for whatever reason, I didn't. And then, through my haze, I thought, 'I can't leave this girl here. This is insane.' Or something to that effect." He paused, as if he was gathering his thoughts. "Rory, she was totally unconscious. I don't know if he beat her, or drugged her, or if she just passed out from the fear of it all. I don't know why she was there in the first place." 

"Probably, she got there the same way I did," Rory said distantly. 

Jess drew in a sharp breath. "I can't make it better. I can't fix it. I don't know how." 

"Does it get worse?" 

"The way you feel?" 

"_The story. _ I want to hear the rest." 

"Oh," he said miserably. "She was such a tiny, little thing. Dark hair, like . . . like you have." He gave her an odd look before he bent his head, falling silent. Rory was about to prod him along, when he opened his mouth, and began to speak. "I got her dressed. All I could find was a big T-shirt. She didn't have any clothes! I carried her out of the house, and nobody said a word. It was like it was the most normal thing that I had an unconscious girl over my shoulder. There was one guy who looked at me funny, but he was stoned. I said: 'Look, man, she's my sister,' and he went away. I found Eddie out by the fire and we left. Eddie wasn't too happy about it. He was wasted too, and he thought I was kidnaping her, so it was almost this big thing. In the end, he did what I told him." 

"What happened?" 

Jess stopped in a clump of bushes with waxy oval leaves. The fragrance of wintergreen was strong in the air. He turned back to Rory, looked at her, and looked away. "She woke up later, in the car." His voice dropped. "She was screaming." 

He swallowed, and put a hand over his eyes. "She didn't know where she was. Ed pulled over. She was fighting me . . . crying. I didn't want to hurt her, so I didn't hang on. She jumped out, and took off over the field. At first I followed her, but there were houses, and she was screaming. It wasn't the right thing to do, to leave her, but I knew . . . I hoped that someone would come out. I hoped that someone would . . . help her." 

Chin up, his jaw stiff, he looked Rory in the eye. "I'll be honest with you. I also knew that if I was caught chasing a hysterical, half-naked girl, that wasn't going to be too good for me." 

"So you just . . . left her?" She shivered. 

"I left her. And now you know." He turned away. "Now you know what kind of guy I really am." 

"That's what . . . never mind." Rory put her hands to her temples, squeezing, massaging. Her head was throbbing, and she was confused. "Do they know?" 

"What?" 

"The Hartzkes. Do they know you took her?" 

Jess sneered. "Of course they know. They're not running a super-sophisticated sex slave cartel. Where do you think Len got the bright idea to take you in the first place?" 

"I thought he--I thought--but wasn't it about the snake?" 

"In the shed, I tried to tell him that I was just making a broad interpretation of the anybody who wants her can have her, thing," Jess said, with a wry smile. "He didn't buy it."   
  
"I don't imagine he would." 

"I think we could have come to . . . an _agreement_ . . . about the other stuff. But when he saw you, just like her, but prettier . . . and classy. And _mine._ I think it was that you were mine. The audacity." 

"Oh," she murmured. 

"We have a history. When I called him for a job, I didn't think it was going to be such a big fucking deal." 

"What history?" she asked, but he waved away her question. He kicked the teaberry bush, and stomped through the leaves. Rory could see that he was talked out.   
  
"I wish you had told me," she said to his back, and he grunted. She trailed along in his wake, unsure what to make of the sordid tale. _It's just another piece of the puzzle,_ she thought, but she was sick at heart. Was Jess the hero of that story, or the asshole?   
  
She broke the thick silence, clearing her throat. "Len Hartzke . . . he made me think . . . I thought it was a very different story." 

It wasn't until she thought to ask for the flashlight, that she missed him. He had been distant and sullen since his confession, and Rory, preoccupied by her own murky thoughts, had stopped trying to make him talk to her. She had been deeply disturbed by his story, more so than she had first thought. She was a little woozy. Her stomach seemed permanently twisted.   
  
She in no way doubted the story's veracity. Jess had been too upset in the telling, and if he had been inclined at the moment to make something up, his style was to create something leaner, more sanitized; he would have concocted a yarn that, in his vast and frequently obnoxious wisdom, he deemed suitable for her tender ears. 

Jess knew the Hartzkes had already kidnaped a girl. Coughing, Rory considered this. Her head was throbbing, and that made it hard for her to think clearly, but as she placed one foot in front of the other, she was trying very hard to place one thought logically after the other, in a sequence. This is what she had so far: Jess had told her to stay in the car. It had been almost the first thing he had said. He had threatened and cajoled, and tried to make her wait for him at the motel. She was the one who had insisted on accompanying him. She was the one who had gotten out of the car. But, Jess knew the Hartzkes had already kidnaped a girl.   
  
Once again, the tiny ember of doubt had been fanned, catching flame, for she had her memory of Jess in the lamplight in Asbury Park, telling Len Hartzke it was okay to take her away. 

Trudging along with her head down, she was looking to avoid puddles, and meeting with limited success. Her face was very hot, and she had gotten the idea to bury it in a leafy bush. Everything was wet, and she thought that might cool her off. She needed the flashlight to pick a good bush, one that wasn't prickly. But when she wanted Jess, he was gone. She turned in a slow circle, her throat closing up. She realized that it had gotten lighter, and she hadn't even noticed. Now she could see that the bushes had red leaves and dark berries. A mist was winding through the trees like the ghost of a python. She blinked, and it was upon her. She couldn't see her saddle shoes. 

"Jess?" she whispered, and her heart beat a rapid tattoo. After the bushes there were thin trees, almost evenly spaced, and beyond those, the dark shadow of the underbrush. "Jess?" 

She heard a gasp. "Here." 

"Say it again," she called, her voice low. 

_"Here."_ There was a flicker of light. She pushed her way through the branches, amazed she had strayed so far from his side.   
  
_"Here,"_ he called. There was some tall grass, and the ground grew marshy. She followed the light, and found him in the wispy reeds, next to a small lake that was ringed by cedars canting at odd angles. The black skin of the water shimmered in the faint light.   
  
"So, now there's a lake." Rory rubbed her eyes. On top of the water floated the decaying pads of water lilies. 

Jess was on his knees, with his head bent. He held the flashlight with two hands. The beam was shaking. When Rory crouched beside him, he put the light away. "Are you all right?" she asked. "I thought I lost you." 

Without lifting his head he said, "Cramps. I'm cramping up." 

"Oh, you poor thing." 

"I thought after I had a drink-" 

"That didn't help?" 

"I'm sick. Shit! I hate to be sick." 

"You're exhausted," she said flatly. "You were sweating too much. In the shed." She picked up one of his hands. "And now you're much too cold." She slid out of the jean jacket, and held it out to him. 

Slowly, he lifted his head. "Huh?" 

"Put it on. When we get to the car, I'll get my sweater." 

"When we get to the car!" He laughed, indicating the water. On the other side of the lake, between the trees, the sky was turning red. "We're never going to find the car!" 

"We are so!" she said angrily. 

He shook his head. "We're lost. I can't go any further. And you're completely incompetent. You've been hallucinating all over the place-" 

"I've never had a hallucination in my life!" 

"You'll last longer, of course. Women always do. They'll find you, Rory. They'll take you back!" 

"I won't go back. I won't. If you give up, I give up, too. But what do you think's going to happen? We'll lay in each other's arms under a tree, and the birds and mice will cover us with leaves? If you're going to end it--end it. Be a man." Jess jumped when she ran a hand over his ass, seeking. When she found the right pocket, she tried to work her hand in. 

"What are you doing?!" 

"I know you took my razor blade. I know you have it." 

"No." 

"It's in your pocket," she said irritably. "I'm not stupid." Her hands were numb, and there were bruises at the base of her thumbs. She clenched her fists, and turned them over, showing him the raw flesh of her wrists. "Do it." 

"Are you insane?" he breathed. 

"I'm being practical. You asked me to be, and finally, I am." Again, she reached for his back pocket. 

He slapped her hand away. "Rory, stop it!" 

"Get it over with," she cried. "Oh, do it, just do it!" 

"Rory, stop!" 

She struck him. He grabbed her arm, and she tried to pull away. He hauled her over his knees, like he was going to give her a spanking. Rory yelped, outraged, and began to thrash, but Jess pulled her up. He locked his arms around her, squeezing her to his chest. Rory squirmed, and got an arm free. She whacked him in the ear.   
  
They tussled until Jess shoved her down. She shrieked when he flipped her over on her stomach. Jess climbed on top of her, and for a scary second, as he pinned her wrists near her ears, she forgot who he was and strained frantically, choking on her own screams. His weight pressed her into the mud. The damp soaked her, soiling her bra, her skirt, even her panties. Rory turned her head, groaning. She had mud in her mouth. 

"Stop it, please stop," Jess whispered. He was panting. "I didn't mean it, I didn't, I'm not giving up. I'm just so tired." 

She struggled, but he held her. Her eyes blurred, and she had to sniffle to keep her nose from running. She gave up and went limp. 

Jess rolled off her. Rory sat up on her knees, spitting. She wiped her eyes. She glanced at Jess, then leaned forward to fit her breasts back in her bra. She adjusted the shoulder straps. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, staring across the lake. In the odd predawn light, the water seemed oily, and alive, and the trees were black silhouettes. 

Jess was quiet, his face drawn. As she watched, he bent his head. Rory could see the knobs of his spine. He seemed all used up. 

"Oh, God." She put her face in her hands, and her shoulders shook. "Everything I did was wrong. I'm the one who made Len Hartzke hurt you so much." 

He looked at her, seeming surprised. "Rory, no. You did one wrong thing, and that's it. You got out of the car when I told you not to. Everything else–" 

"But they were killing you!" 

"Dammit, Rory! They were never going to kill me. They just wanted to hurt me. But you came out, and everything changed." 

"Changed? Changed how?" 

"Changed in the way business between men changes when a woman shows up! Everything changes when there's a woman!" 

"I don't understand." She thought it was an absurd thing to say. Business between men! 

"Men do not have the _capacity_ to be rational about women! And men like Len Hartzke, they fight over women like--like dogs fighting for bones, and when they're finished-" 

"They bury the bones." 

"Rory-" 

"He was going to kill _me._" She was weightless, floating. 

"I couldn't take the chance," he whispered. 

"I knew that." Her vision darkened, and narrowed to a pinprick. "I guess I knew that all along." 

"Rory-" he pleaded. 

"In--in the end, he decided to keep me. It was two to one, but Len Har-Hartzke was the one, and I guess his vuh–vote just counts for more-" 

"Oh, God," he moaned. "Jesus." 

"It was me they were talking about, in the living room," she said faintly. "You had sent the police to that other place, where I wasn't. They were trying to figure out what to do. They were _mad._" She wiped her eyes. "I--I was all tied up. With tape. My hands, my--my feet." Her voice broke. "I couldn't run away . . . so I just went away. . . ." 

"I'm so sorry," he whispered. 

She looked at him, frightened. "I went really far away, Jess. I don't even think I'm back yet." 

"No. Not yet." 

Across the water, the shoreline was more distinct, and the surface of the lake was casting back light. All of the trees had distorted, funhouse twins. 

"Whatever happens, I don't want Len Hartzke to be my first." Rory shuddered, adding, "My first that--that I know about." She choked back a sob. "Why does he even want to do that? Why? It's so yucky!" Jess made a harsh sound, and Rory turned to him, imploring, "Please don't let that happen, Jess." 

"Rory," he said softly, "We have to keep going. That's all we can do." 

"No," she said. "I already decided. I chose you." She sighed sadly, looking up at him with wet eyes. "I know you're afraid. But it's _okay,_ Jess. I won't break. And I want you to. . . ." 

"My God," he breathed. "I don't . . . it's not-" 

_"I know,"_ she moaned. "But it's very important to me. I'll never ask you for anything again." 

"There's _no way-_" 

"I know you feel worse than before, and you didn't want to do it then. But can't you just try?" 

"No!" He sniffed, swiping at his nose with the back of his hand. The wind had died down, and in the clear quiet, Rory could hear the scratchy sound of stubble on his upper lip. "It was never . . . God, do you think a couple of stitches could keep me from _ravishing_ you? Are you crazy? That was never it!" 

"But why? I've asked you, and asked you, and you always say no! Do you hate me that much?" 

"Don't be stupid." His voice was rough. "You know I don't hate you. I know you know that, Rory. I know you know how much I love you. If you don't, if you _refuse_ to understand that--there's no hope for you at all." He threw up his hands. "It was about the _situation._ First Dean, and now all this! And it was about the difference between me being a legal adult, while you're still a little girl!" 

She groaned. "Oh, shut up! I won't listen to that--that crap!" 

"I'm talking about rape, Rory! Statutory rape! Do you think I didn't want you? You were naked. You were in the tub . . . _and in my bed._ You were writhing around like a little cat in heat! How could you possibly think, in one million years, that I wouldn't see that?" He shook his head, his upper lip curling. In a patronizing tone, he said: "Rory, I can't make love to you, I'm so sore. . . . " 

He laughed meanly. "And you bought it, because you're so naive! Then, when I couldn't take it anymore, I did touch you. I knew it was _wrong._ You ran into the bathroom-" 

"I didn't run!" 

"You stayed in there forever! Washing me away! I thought you were going to get dressed and hightail it to the cops!" 

Slack jawed, she stared at him. "You--you don't love me at all. How could you love such a stupid idiot?" 

"I love a beautiful girl who doesn't know her ass from her elbow," he said. "And right now that describes you perfectly. But I won't fuck you. Not here, not like this." 

"Okay, I'm looking this up on the internet, because I think you don't get the law. The Age of Consent in Connecticut is sixteen-" 

"This is_ New Jersey!_" 

"But I'm sure it's the same! And statutory rape is . . . it's like if you're thirty, and I'm thirteen. Or, if _I'm_ thirty, and _you're_ thirteen." 

"No, it's a way rich people have of fucking over guys like me. Guys who don't know their place! Guys who dare to touch their precious daughters! It's a way to get back at us, to ruin our lives!" 

"Jess, that's crazy. You're dehydrated." 

"And then there's sexual abuse, unlawful penetration-" He ticked them off on his fingers. 

"I'm seventeen! I can give my consent!" 

He held up another finger. "How about, you're not _capable_ of giving consent because you've had a nervous breakdown?" 

"You're the one who's nuts! You have an imaginary job in a bra and toy store!" 

"They'll find something. They always do. I can't do it, Rory. I can't." 

"You know what? You will, too. In fact, I'm _ordering_ you to do it. Take your shirt off." 

"Stop it!" 

She found the jacket. Backing away from the water, she spread it out on the grass. Giving him a defiant glare, she lay down on her back, with her knees bent. She stretched out her arms. "I chose you," she said. "You're the biggest jerk I ever met, but I love you." 

He knelt at her feet. "If you press the point, I'll call your bluff. I really will, Rory. And you'll hate me for it." 

"I kind of hate you already," she said. "I've begged and pleaded, and even asked you nicely. What more do you need?" 

"Why are you doing this to me? Why? Why?!" 

"You have to do it!" 

"Is this what you want?" He pushed her knees apart, and she stiffened, gasping. "Is this what you want?!" He shoved up her skirt. Rory couldn't stand it; he was too angry. She was perilously close to snapping out of herself, and flying away.   
  
"No," she whimpered, covering her face. "Please, no. Not like this." She rolled on her side and drew up her knees. She was shaking. 

There was a faint splash, and a ripple crossed the lake. The lily pads bobbed gently. Distantly, Rory wondered what it would be like to walk on them, like Thumbelina. She remembered what the frogs said when they kidnaped Thumbelina: _We will place her on one of the water-lily leaves out in the stream. It will be like an island to her, she is so light and small, and then she cannot escape._

Jess let out a long sigh. His hand was gentle now, stroking the soft place where her hip emerged from the lace of her panties. "I want to love you. It's the only thing in this world that I _do_ want. You and me as man and woman, _together._ Len Hartzke would force you and force you, and he wouldn't care." His hand stilled. "I don't even dare. I shouldn't be touching you at all."   
  
"But I have to be different," Rory tried to explain. She folded her hands under her chin, her face serious. "It's the only way. So if Len Hartzke ever sees me again . . . he'll know." She nudged Jess's hand with her hip, aching to be touched _softly._ "I'll be different. Don't you see? He won't want me anymore. He'll forget all about us. You'll be safe." 

"Baby," Jess said sadly. "You're confused about things. That's not going to work." There was a feather touch light on her thigh, and Rory closed her eyes, passive under Jess's hand. He kissed her there, in the place he had touched, and slid away. He sat back on his heels. "At the end of it, I might go to jail, Rory. It's not going to be for this." 

"But probably _nobody_ is going to jail! We already decided that!" 

He shook his head. "I won't let them make me out to be a rapist. I won't." 

"Not a rapist!" Rory sat up quickly. "I asked you to!" Her head swam, and she leaned back on her hands. She saw him touch the scratches on his cheek. She reached out, but he caught her hand and turned it so she could see her fingernails. 

"It would be the final irony." His voice was bleak. "It would kill me." 

"Can't I just _be_ with you?" 

"A girl like you can't run away, Rory. When your family sent that detective after us, that was when I knew. I knew a guy like me could never have you. But I didn't know what to do. You weren't ready to go home, and I wasn't ready . . . I wasn't ready to let you go."   
  
"I--I can't believe you made a unilateral decision. You decided all this without me." 

He pulled her into his arms. "It would have been different, if we'd gotten together back in Stars Hollow. We would have waited until you were old enough. It would have been so special." 

"Oh," she gasped, resting her head on his chest. "You're breaking my heart!" 

"Rory, we missed our chance." 

"No!" 

Jess wiped away some mud, exposing the bruise from the seat belt, and kissed her in the place between her breasts. "I should never have taken you," he whispered. "I thought I was the only one who got it. I saw a guy who wanted to keep his girl on a short leash--who thought he was losing control of her. But in the end, I was the one that hurt you." 

"You're hurting me _now,_" Rory sobbed. "Don't do this! Don't let Len Hartzke steal this from me! _Please._" She placed a soft hand on his chest, and tried to kiss him on the lips. 

He turned his head. "_I won't._ But it's because I'm getting you out of here. Not because you want me to jump you in the Pine Barrens." He got to his feet, and drew her up after him. Sniffling, Rory crossed her arms over her chest. Her bra was soaked. Even through the mud, her breasts were clearly outlined, her nipples sharp from the cold. Jess glanced at her, and looked away. "And put the damn jacket back on. Everybody knows the girl wears the jacket." 

"It was all for nothing," she said, in a small, addled voice. Her face was screwed up in misery. "I can't believe it was all for nothing." She pulled on the jacket, but couldn't figure out how to button it up. In the end, Jess had to do it, closing his eyes because he could see better with his fingers. 

He took her hand, pulling, and she stumbled after him. They began to edge their way around the lake, toward the reddening sky. "Be a man! Seriously. What the hell does _that_ mean?" 

The sky got dark. It began to rain. Rory's head was buzzing. Her chest was tight, and when she coughed, she had a hard time stopping. She had already been uncomfortable--wet to the skin--but now her teeth were chattering and her hair was plastered to her head. Her school skirt stuck to her thighs. Jess's jacket was heavy. If she hadn't been so cold, she would have taken it off and slung it over her shoulder.   
  
Jess was silent beside her. He had his arms crossed over his stomach. His sodden Avon T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, and was molded to his chest. Once, she would grown silly with desire from just looking, but now the sight of him made her lonely. 

Despite her bewildered sadness, she was worried about him. Jess had owned up to being nauseated, and Rory knew he was still cramping. His eyes were hollow, his lips pinched and blue-tinged. _Blue,_ she thought. _His lips are blue! Is he dying?_

"Rory," he said in a low voice, breaking her out of her reverie. 

"Yes?" 

"Did you take the bandages?" 

"I'm sorry?" 

"The little pieces of-" 

"I know. Was I supposed to?" 

He sighed. "I didn't tell you to." 

"I never even saw them." 

"I'm confused." He wiped his eyes. "Because there's one." 

Rory looked up, and saw a little scrap of white, caught in a bush. "Are you sure? Maybe it's something the wind blew." She caught the branch and pulled it down. "Maybe it's something the birds put--oh." It was tied to the branch. "You _do_ have good eyes. Should I take it now? Jess? Jess?" 

He shoved aside some tall bushes, saying, "It doesn't make sense." Rory squeezed in beside him. She could make out a field, dotted here and there with medium pines, and beyond that, a two-story house. 

"A house," she breathed, feeling low excitement. "Is it--safe?" 

"I don't know," he said. "I don't get it." 

"Don't get what?" 

"We-" He seemed to be having trouble talking. Finally, he got out, "We were so far from the--the-" 

"The path?" she supplied. 

"Yeah." 

"I know," she said miserably. "I never should have made you climb that thingie. And the lake! It's my fault." 

"I should have--I'm supposed to--you can't be expected to-" 

"Jess," she blurted. "We're in trouble. You're so sick!" 

"If only I knew you were somewhere where no one could get at you-" 

Tentatively, she said, "I think I should go and see. If it's safe, I'll come get you." She looked up at him, waiting for some sort of reaction. None was forthcoming. Jess stood with his forehead creased, the rainwater running down the sharp planes of his face. _His skin is like paper,_ she thought. _He's melting away._

"Okay," Rory decided, feeling nervous. "That's what I'm going to do. You wait here." She broke through the bushes. Overset with wracking coughs, she put both hands over her mouth. It was long since past the point where she could choke back her coughing. 

Rory bent her head and started across the field, walking against the rain. The house faded in and out of view. She squinted, biting her lip. She was starting to get a very funny feeling. She looked back at Jess over her shoulder. She tried to catch his eye. She wished he would smile, or nod. She wanted him to encourage her in some way, to throw his weight behind the decision to approach the house. He stood staring, his arms loose at his sides, his shoulders uneven. She turned back to the house. 

Rory took a few more steps and stopped, uncertain. She and Jess had walked for hours and hours, all through the night, and if she didn't get him some help, she didn't know what was going to happen. He needed a doctor. A hospital bed. Maybe some antibiotics and surgical intervention. But she could not move her feet. She felt a strong sense of dread radiating from somewhere near her center. Perhaps it was her womb, in tune with the mysteries of the universe, telling her to notice something she had picked up under the limits of conscious perception. But, what was it? Was it only that she was scared? They had been so tormented, was it that she was afraid to meet up with anyone? Anyone at all? She looked at the house.   
  
_The shed should be right about . . . right about there,_ she thought, and stumbling forward, she saw it. Jess's prison. It was unmistakable. Her stomach dropped. "North west," she breathed. "We were supposed to go _west._" 

There was a shout behind her, and she whirled. Jess was white. He took a couple of shaky steps, hollering, "We--we walked right into the sun!"   
  
He stopped, and looked down at himself with an expression of dismay. He sank heavily to his knees. It seemed to require extreme effort for him to lift his head. He mouthed something. From where she was, Rory couldn't understand. It might have been: _"Come back."_

His eyes rolled up, and he pitched forward. 

"Jess! You're strong! You have tremendous force of will!" She ran to his side and bent over him. "Get up," she gasped. "You have to get up!" 

There was a rustle in the bushes, and she jumped, startled. She spun around.   
  
"No!" She threw up her hands. "Please!" 

  


~ * ~

To be continued . . .


	19. 19

19. 

She threw her hands up to ward him off, but he tossed the blanket over her head. The folds fell around her like a fisherman's net, dragging her down to her knees. Her arms bent back under the weight, until her elbows got stuck somewhere above her ears. Her hands ended up clasped behind her neck. There was nowhere else to put them.   
  
Rory knelt in the grass, frozen. Her heart was racing. She couldn't see where he was. She couldn't tell if he was doing something terrible to Jess. Without warning, he pressed up against her from behind. She gasped in horror, and the blanket stretched across her open mouth.   
  
Her head and arms and torso were wound up, but it would have been a small matter for him to scrabble under the blanket and pull her underpants down. She knew that was all she was to him, what was between her legs. The last time he had tried to get at her, his brother had been just down the hall. There was no reason to believe he wouldn't rape her while her boyfriend lay face down and dying a few feet away. 

His arms slid around her waist in a gross parody of a lover's embrace as he crisscrossed the blanket over her stomach. He forced her to bend like she was bowing to a maharaja, then he was tying off the blanket at the small of her back. Rory moaned. She was as good as cocooned in an improvised straightjacket, with her forehead touching the ground, and her ass up in the air. The next thing, muffled by the wool and the rain and her own frantic heartbeat, would be the sound of his zipper. 

His hands had been so heavy, sure and insistent, that she was completely dumfounded when he left her. With frustrating effort, like she was trying to pick up pennies from a smooth surface with no fingernails, she amassed a meager handful of her few remaining wits. 

Rory had by now passed a great deal of time in the company of badguys. Her position was clear enough, and bleak. She knew that while no specific conditions had been set, daring to move from where he'd left her was likely to be interpreted as terrific insolence, or worse--outright defiance. She gave herself a moment, to make sure she really had the courage. 

Gingerly, she lifted her head. Her elbows made sharp points like horns where the blanket was tight across her head. When there were no angry words--she had been expecting to get hit, actually--she struggled to upright herself. It was difficult, wrapped as she was, and without the use of her arms. The effort made her pant, and despite the fact that she had been drenched and shivering, her breath, trapped with her in the blanket, was making her warm and lightheaded. Twisting at the waist, she turned awkwardly to the side. She was so afraid for Jess. He was just a few feet away, and defenseless. But all she could do now was listen. 

Nothing she heard made sense. There was a thunk--something heavy being set down. There was a metallic clinking, like he was rooting through a bag of forks and knives. Then: swish, swish, swish. A branch snapped(that she recognized). Around and above it all, there was the thrum of never-ending rain. 

Rory drew in a filmy breath, inhaling moisture from the wool blanket. "Jess?" She cleared her throat. "Are . . . are you . . . _there?_" 

He yanked her up. She was completely unprepared when his shoulder met her stomach, and lost her air in an explosive gasp. Her feet left the ground, and she croaked: "No! No! Not again!" She _hated_ being upside down. It made her head throb. 

He held her by her ankles. Jess and Buddy Hartzke both had held her by the thighs. She hadn't liked that any better, but at least it had seemed more secure. For a guy to toss a girl over his shoulder, and hold her only by the ankles, seemed to Rory to be awfully cavalier. 

He tilted sideways at an alarming angle, and Rory tensed, afraid of falling. Agonizing seconds ticked by as he bobbed; it seemed like he was groping around. He started to walk. His footfall was heavy, and he listed to the side, almost limping, so that Rory bounced over his shoulder. "Wait," she groaned, squirming. "Wait! Jess?"   
  
She couldn't move her feet, or she would have kicked him. She couldn't hit him either, and she would have dearly loved to pound on his back with her fists. She strained against the blanket, trying to at least lift her head. 

"Please!" She knew it was futile. Hadn't Paris warned her? Dependable, if dogmatic Paris. She always knew the score. He was the worst of them all. His eyes were flat chips of ice, and his heart had shrunken, as if a disease had robbed him of the quality of human empathy. He could hit a girl and laugh about it after. He could thrust his hand between her legs, leaving scratch marks on her thighs. Rory knew full well how useless it was to beg this man for anything. Still she did it, hating him with every fiber of her being. "Please--don't leave him! Don't leave him . . . all alone . . . in the rain-"   
  


Her mom sat in the front row on a folding chair, wearing a red dress Rory especially admired. The dress had small white flowers on it, and Rory's mom had made it herself, although you couldn't tell. 

"Rory, honey--you're _on,_" Miss Patty stage-whispered, cutting Rory away from the other children. "You're not going to throw up are you, dear?" 

She gave Rory a shove, and Rory skidded to the center of the stage in her patent leather shoes. She fetched up under the hot spotlight--a furnel, Miss Patty called it, although Rory knew it was spelled _Fresnel_--and immediately forgot what she was supposed to be doing. 

_"Rain,"_ Miss Patty prompted, from the wings. 

"Rain," Rory repeated uncertainly. 

"_The_ rain-" Miss Patty whispered. 

_"The rain is raining all around,"_ Rory recited, eyes on her mom so she wouldn't feel so scared. In the soft backwash from the spot, her mom was beautiful--dark curls, creamy skin, red lipstick to match the dress. Rory thought her heart would burst from loving her so much. Her mom leaned forward and mouthed something. Rory was perplexed. "What?" 

_"It falls-"_ Miss Patty said. 

"But-" Rory looked nervously over her shoulder, to where Miss Patty waited safe in darkness. 

_ "It falls-"_

Blinking at Miss Patty, Rory continued, _"It falls on field and tree. It rains on the umbrellas here, and on the ships at sea."_ She turned back to the auditorium. "Mom?" Her mom was gone. "Mommy?" 

_ "Curtsey,"_ Miss Patty hissed, from the wings.   
  
  


Then there was nothing, and after that, the sensation she consisted of diffuse particles only loosely grouped in that they were alike. The particles floated in perfect tranquility.   
  
There was an explosion. It was huge. 

_stars! Pretty . . ._

There was another explosion. 

_ . . . well . . . that's pain,_ she thought dryly. _How unusual-_

She was dismayed. The act of thinking had given her structure. With a rush, she poured unwilling into her wretched, aching body.   
  


Slow motion teardrops splattered her face, and Rory awoke with an unladylike snort. Her neck creaked when she lifted her head. She looked down the length of her body, and found that she was flat on the ground, with one arm sprawled awkwardly over her head. There was an uncomfortable twist of blanket lumped under her back. 

Her brows knit as she realized she was in a circle of coarse, flattened grass. It was like being in a grass hut, with the obvious drawback that there was no roof. _They built it around me,_ she thought muzzily. _I must have fallen from the sky._ If she hadn't had icy water dripping down her neck, she would have curled up with her head on her arm. 

Rory's heart skipped a beat. A little late, she'd noticed that her skirt was higher than it should have been, exposing a lot of white skin above her ruined stockings. It took her another second to comprehend that her underpants were in plain sight. They clung to her, wet and translucent, doing nothing to protect the small shadow underneath. 

A scream of pure, wordless anger barreled up from deep inside, only to stop dead before it left her throat. There was no point in screaming. Sad and worn, she covered herself with a small shudder. She was all alone--a girl who had been carried off into the woods by a monster. No, there was no point at all in screaming. Who would hear? Who would care? 

She coughed, and had to roll over on her side. She couldn't catch her breath. She hacked until her eyes filled with tears and she retched up watery bile. Her stomach muscles contracted in protest, and tiny black spots floated in her eyes. 

A hand fell on her shoulder, and she flinched. "Nuh," she gasped, drawing up her legs and pressing her thighs firmly together. She wiped rivulets of spittle from her mouth with the back of her hand. "Don't tuh--touch me! Go _away!_" 

"What's in your head--it's wrong," he said gruffly. "Pull yourself together. If I have to slap you again, your head will fall off." 

Rory almost crawled out of her skin. She looked over her shoulder, and her eyes got wide. "Who-?" she rasped, astonished, because she _wasn't_ looking at Guy Hartzke. It was somebody new.   
  
  


She had twisted away coughing, and now to see him she had to crane her neck. He was tall, and while Rory's first impression had been that he was really strong, it was possible he was skinnier than he first appeared. He was wearing a lot of layers.   
  
His skin was cocoa brown. Unlike Jess, he didn't have a beard, but he was older. Twenties? _A grownup,_ she thought.   
  
His cheekbones were high and wide, and they gave his face an almost triangular shape. They were extraordinary cheekbones; Rory couldn't stop looking at them. Across the bridge of his nose there was darker pigmentation--a smattering of freckles. He had round, wire frame glasses, that magnified his eyes. His eyes were brown. 

They were absolutely the wrong brown eyes, and yet they were so similar, Rory felt a painful twinge. _Jess. _ She made a wish. One more moment with him, even if it was only that moment where he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. With morose nostalgia, she remembered how he would look away a hair of a second before she lifted her head--but she could always tell that he'd been looking. 

The stranger blinked behind his glasses, and Rory noticed that the lenses were fogging over. She couldn't help thinking: _If he got into a fight, those glasses would get broken. _Unbidden, a yearning arose in her that was so intense she almost moved her lips with her muddled thoughts. She sat primly in the grass, a hand raised to her stinging cheek as she mulled it over. He had abducted her. He had _slapped_ her. _Could he possibly have come to . . . help?_

He wore what Rory took to be hunting clothes, woodland camouflage. With a certain amount of relief, she remarked upon the fact that he didn't have a rifle. Although maybe he did, and she just couldn't see it from where she was sitting. There was a gray baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. The logo on the cap was the letter 'G' outlined in white. Rainwater dripped from the brim in a steady stream, as he stared down at her with the expression of a man who is not entirely pleased with his catch. 

Rory's eyes narrowed. He wasn't going to help her. He was just another sick pervert who wanted to steal her from Jess. He had been staring at her_ underwear._   
  
_You've caught the wrong girl,_ she thought dispiritedly. _Oh . . . throw me back. In the end, you're just going to decide you want a girl with bigger boobs, anyway._ Her eyelid twitched; she felt like she had sand in her eye.   
  
Trembling, she huddled on the ground at his feet. She wasn't ready to speak up, not yet. She balled her hands into fists. Maybe never. If this creep thought she was going to sit around and talk to him like the others, he had another thing coming. She had one good kick left in her, before she gave up entirely. Feigning nonchalance, she took note of where his masculine weakness should be.   
  
She began to cough, and bent over her knees, with her back to him. _Jess!_ It was an internal cry of wrenching anguish._ I'm tired. I'm so, so tired, and I have to find my way back! I have to get from wherever he's brought me back to where I was . . . back to Jess._   
  
Her stomach dropped, and she swallowed a sob. She had been operating under the assumption that the stranger, having secured The Girl, had ignored Jess as being extraneous. _Did he do something to Jess? Something . . . bad?_

He tapped her shoulder. He had crouched, and was holding out a battered thermos cup. Rory saw that the palm of his hand was the color of pale coral. 

She caught a whiff of spice before her nose clogged up. Ginger? Sugar? She hadn't seen the thermos, nor had she seen him pour. Her forehead creased. _What exactly am I supposed to do with that?_   
  
He gestured with the cup. 

Rory stifled a cough, running a hand over her rain slicked hair. She clamped her mouth shut, shaking her head. Of course she wasn't going to drink his drink. What was it? Poison? Man-transforming medicine? Rohypnol? Did he think she was nuts?   
  
He made a noise; to Rory, he sounded irritated. Well, Rory thought that was rich. She was the one who should be irritated. Hadn't he just kidnaped her? Tied her up in a blanket? Carried her away from Jess, who was sick and unconscious and _needed_ her?   
  
Mounting the sharp crest of hysteria, Rory wanted to demand: _Please state your qualifications for kidnapper. There are many kidnappers in this story. What sets you apart from all the others? Any special skills? Evidently you have taken_ Subduing the Victim 101,_ and_ Throwing the Girl Over Your Shoulder. _Your technique, while original, could use some work. Demonstrate your scary voice by reading from this list of standard threats._   
  
Once more, he gestured with the cup. Rory turned away and bent her head, refusing to look at him. His response to that was simple. Encircling her with his arm, he pinched her nose. He caught her nose between his thumb and forefinger, like a child's game gone horribly wrong. It hurt like hell. Incensed by yet another example of his boundless effrontery, Rory bleated: "Hey!" 

With his other hand, he pressed the cup to her lips, pouring. He filled up her mouth. Rory choked, and some of the liquid dribbled down her chin. He let go of her nose, and put a hand over her mouth, at the same time drawing her back tightly against his chest. 

In panic, Rory grabbed his wrist. Her eyes were wild as she tried to shake him off. She reached up over his arm. She wanted to find his face. She intended to claw him. He shoved her hands down, and wrapped his other arm around her so she couldn't lift them again. He squeezed her as she struggled and kicked, all the while stoppering her mouth. His long fingers dug into her cheeks. Despairing, Rory didn't understand _why._ Why did it have to be like this? Some of it was leaking from her _nose,_ and she was drowning. . . . 

She swallowed. 

It was a painful gulp, too big for her throat. Something hotter than heat burned all the way down. "Blah!" she gasped angrily, after he had let her up. "Why--why did you do that? Why?!" She put a hand to her head. _"Oh."_

Between her eyes, something that had been riotous, quieted. Her chest opened, as though she had been relieved of the stays of a whalebone corset. Rory drew her first deep breath in what seemed like centuries. She reached for the battered cup, and took it in her own two hands. She gulped the contents greedily. When she had emptied the cup, she thrust it at him. "More." He shook his head. 

_ "More,"_ she insisted. 

"By the time you drank it, there was an equal part of rainwater." A lazy grin twitched across his lips. "But still--I wasn't thinking of young ladies when I made up that drink. I wasn't sure who was out here." 

Rory turned to face him. She was feeling _awfully_ strange. Like she was rocking, even though she was reasonably sure she wasn't moving. "Who--who do you work for? Are you the woodsman?" 

He didn't seem to know what to do with that. He frowned, looking away. After a moment, he said: "So . . . I guess you're not going to scream." 

"Of course I'm not going to scream." She stared at her lap, bemused. When she lifted her head again to look at him, she was surprised to see that things were getting fuzzy. She had to squint. "Do I need to scream?" 

"You're loud enough. That's why I did you the way I did." With his hands, he illustrated wrapping her up in the blanket.   
  
Remembering, Rory scowled. She had a fleeting thought--she really should take off. Leap to her feet, run. That sort of thing. She sighed heavily, and made a sound with her mouth that was like bubbles popping: _mack, a-mack, a-mack._ She couldn't quite seem to get going. 

"All night I heard you." 

"All night?"   
  
"You crossed my land." He rooted around in his jacket pocket, and held out his hand. In it, there was a jagged strip of blue plaid. Rory reached for it; it was a piece of her skirt, and she wanted it back. He tucked it away carefully, like a keepsake. His hand went to another pocket. "Not once," he said, "but twice." He held out a sliver of dark denim. 

_Jess! _ Her eyes filled with tears. "Why did you take me away from him? Why? We have to stay together. It's very important!" She wiped her nose on the sleeve of Jess's jacket, which was by now becoming stiff, caked with the byproduct of her cold. Her nose smarted as if it had been skinned. She fingered the jacket. Like a lost shadow, it was an extension of Jess. She felt as though a layer of her heart had been pared away as well. "Very bad things happen to him when he's all by himself!"   
  
A belt of cold air smacked into her, and it began to rain harder. Rory put down a hand to steady herself, and that was when she noticed the trickle of the runoff. The rainwater, having pooled on the ground, was sending out feelers, blue-green envoys seeking passage to the Atlantic. Enough was enough. She was sitting in a puddle. "Okay, I have to go look for my boyfriend." She drew up her legs, and started to stand. "Look, mister--thanks for the tea, or whatever, but I have to get going." 

He put a firm hand on her shoulder, and shoved her down. She was weak, and wobbly. He didn't have to shove very hard. "You're the stupidest girl I've ever met." 

It was a mean thing to say to a person whose acquaintance he'd just made--when he'd _kidnaped _her. Rory had the feeling she'd been unfairly judged. Crushing fatigue made her petulant, and she stuck out her lower lip, folding her arms over her chest. "I'd like to meet all these geniuses you normally hang out with." 

"Where do you think you're going to go? You're ready to hack up a lung." 

"Don't be ridiculous." Rory covered her mouth to hide a hiccough. "Hey--am I shrinking, or getting bigger? I vote for getting _bigger._" 

"Yammer, yammer," he said, demonstrating a blabbing mouth with a long-fingered hand. "Just like that. All night long. In the woods, your voice carried." 

Rory felt a sobering internal chill, and shifted uncomfortably. Jess had spent the entire night telling her to keep it down. If only she had listened! 

Peering over his glasses, the stranger continued: "Do you have any idea what you were about to do when I found you?" 

"I have some idea, yes." Nervously, she touched her ankle, feeling the leftover duct tape. She tugged on the hem of her skirt. It was one thing to be shirtless with Jess, but now that she had encountered another person, another _man_, she felt dangerously underdressed. "We . . . we got turned around. We were looking for the road." With a start, she realized she was touching herself too much. She didn't want to give him ideas. She tucked her hands under her thighs and sat on them. After a second, she reconsidered. She might need her hands--to hit him, or something. She folded her hands in her lap, so she wouldn't forget she had them. "It was dark, and we--we lost . . . we lost the way. We got . . . lost . . ." 

She was rapidly losing steam. Dizzily, she looked up at him. "What did you-?" She wanted to ask him what he'd given her to drink, but the inchoate thought evaporated. Instead, she said: "Who _are_ you?" 

"Who are _you?_" 

She gulped. "Oh, hum. Mia . . . Mia Wallace." It was the first thing that came to mind. 

"I see. I thought maybe you were Katie Willows." 

"Katie . . . ?" Rory's nose wrinkled. "You're fond of Tennyson?" The exchange was rapidly taking on the quality of a dream. 

"Seems to me, she had azure eyes." His eyes went up and to the right, contemplating. "Yes. Azure." He focused on Rory, leaning forward. It was a small movement, but she felt it like a terrible intrusion. The man looked at Rory in the manner of a man who was noticing things. She began to feel a slow, crawling panic; it was distant, yet--but on its way. _"Her eyes a bashful azure,"_ he quoted. "And her hair--it was the color of chestnuts."   
  
"The gloh-" Rory coughed into a closed fist. "The gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell divides threefold to show the--the fruit within." 

He nodded. Stabbing a thumb over his shoulder, he asked, "So, who does that make _him?_" 

Rory leaned around him, and gasped. Jess was lying on his back, mashing down his own patch of grass. His head had fallen to the side. His hair was soaked, curling across his forehead in dark tendrils. There were bruised circles under eyes. He was so still. Unearthly pale. "Is that your James?" the stranger asked. "James of the flickering jealousies?" 

"Oh, my God," she breathed. "I thought . . . you brought him! Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She got up on her knees. She took a closer look, and her stomach shriveled. Jess's arms were in front of him, the short sleeves of his shirt tight across his biceps. His wrists were bound with a thick cord. "Why--why is he tied up?" Dismal, small, and entirely overwhelmed, Rory looked up at the stranger. "Why is he tied up?!" she repeated, and this time her question ended on an extremely shrill note. 

The next thing that happened was scary. The man got to his feet. He turned to Jess, towering over him, inscrutable--although the knife in his hand was a significant clue. "Are you joking?!" Rory shrieked. She launched herself past him, putting her body between Jess and the strange man. She cried out: "I'll kill you! I'll kill you! I'll--wup!" He had grabbed the front of her jacket, hauling her up on her toes. "No--don't!" she cried. "Please!" 

He tossed her aside. As she somersaulted through the grass--featuring yet another great view of her drawers--she was thinking: _Wicked, he's wicked, he turned out to be wicked . . . _She came to a rest in a tangle of lifeless vines, her head swimming. She pulled herself free, and got up on her knees. "Don't," she begged, choking on the word. She couldn't say it, could hardly bear to think it- 

_don't cut him. Don't cut out his heart-_

"Is his name as interesting as yours?" 

It was so out of left field, Rory did a double-take. "Puh--pardon me?" 

"I'm curious. What's he been calling himself?" Coming from a guy with a knife in his hand, the question was mild. Casual. 

"Vince," Rory gasped. "His name is Vincent Vega. Please don't--are you going to kill him? I just want you to know--if you think you're going to kill him, so you can keep me . . . you'd better kill us both right now. Because I'll die, too. I really will, I'm warning you." 

"Vexing Vince. Instead of vexing James. So . . . it's a package deal?" 

"Package? Yes. We are practically the same person." Her eyes shiny and wet, Rory persisted, "I never--there were words. Things we said. I have to _talk_ to him." 

The man made a noise. He halfway turned, and gave her a look. "Are you addlepated?" 

"Yeah," she admitted. "A little bit. But I'm just letting you know what's what." 

He pursed his lips, looking off in the distance. "Allow me to tell _you_ what's what." With one hand, he took off his cap, gave it a shake, and fit it back over his close-cropped curls. 

"Please do," Rory said, her eyes on the other hand--the one with the knife. 

"I am not interested in you. Tell the truth, I wish you weren't here at all." 

"That makes two of us," Rory mumbled. 

"You're probably a pretty girl-" 

"I have a personality like a bucket of worms," Rory hastened to point out. "Everybody says so." 

"But, to me you're nothing but a half-formed, baby bird." 

"Oh." 

"Baby birds are not attractive." 

"Absolutely. That's correct. Baby birds are _very_ ugly." 

"I'm not interested in . . . _keeping_ . . . you." 

"Oh," she sighed. "This may sound funny, but that's kind of the nicest thing anybody's said to me in ages." 

"You're welcome. Now--you can walk. Can't you?" 

"Yes," she said, although she wasn't certain. After a cold night of trudging through the woods, her feet were sore, and felt swollen. There was an unhappy elasticity to her legs. They gave the impression of unreliability. Maybe if she had kept just kept walking, if there hadn't been that interlude of dozing, or rather--passing out, and being carried, she wouldn't have noticed. But now- "Of course I can walk." 

He pointed at Jess with the tip of the knife. "He can't." 

"That's right," she said quickly. "You're absolutely right." 

"Why should you ride around like the Queen of Sheba, while I'm hauling him by that rope? I nearly dislocated his arms." 

"Queen of Sheba?" Rory said doubtfully. 

"You see my point?" he said impatiently. "He's not big--but he's no lightweight, either." 

"Oh, I know," Rory agreed fervently. "I've sort of tried to carry him before. It's totally impossible." 

"Not impossible. I just can't carry you both." 

"Uh--carry us to where?" 

He sighed. "Someplace else. You really are stupid, aren't you?" 

"This much, maybe." She held her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. "But it's been a lousy couple of days." 

He turned back to Jess, and took the rope in his hand. Rory saw how loose it was. It was looped around either of Jess's wrists, but they weren't exactly lashed together. If Jess had been awake, he would have been able to untie himself. The knife flashed an errant glint of gray light, as the man sliced through the rope.   
  
"Muh--muh--may I-" She paused to cough. Sniffing, she continued, "Who are you?" 

Putting the knife away, he directed his reply over his shoulder. "I don't know if I can come up with something as interesting as you have." He sucked a whistling breath in through his teeth. "How about--_I'll_ be James." 

"James," Rory repeated nervously. 

"A _different _James. You can call me James Still." 

"James Still?" The name held no special significance. 

He nodded. "James Still." He pointed a very long finger at her, and winked. "_Mister_ Still." 

"All right," she conceded. "As you wish." She let out a hard breath, shivering. "This . . . this is . . . weird. Are you sure . . . are you sure you're entirely . . . here?" 

He said something. She saw his mouth move, but she didn't understand. Rory blinked. For a moment there, he hadn't been in the Pine Barrens. He hadn't even been in color. Mister Still had been sepia instead of chocolate, and instead of hunting gear, he'd been wearing a linen suit. He'd been snapping those long fingers to count it off before he turned back to his piano, and Rory had been certain that if only she could have seen further, past the potted palms and fringed curtains, she would have been able to watch the thin, glassy-eyed girls leaning over the banister. The girls who wore transparent chemises, and dark stockings, and never got dressed. They didn't go out. 

Rory rubbed her eyes, and was next observing Mister Still in the act of rolling Jess on his stomach. Still fit his arms under Jess's armpits, and got to his feet, drawing Jess up with him. Jess was a marionette, inanimate and awkward. His head fell back. Mister Still bent at the knee, and with an ease that robbed Rory of her breath, slid Jess over his shoulders. Still threaded an arm between Jess's legs, also securing Jess at the wrist. As always, Rory was astonished--and perturbed--by how strong a man could be. Apparently, Mister Still could carry Jess, and keep a hand free in case he needed to do something _else. _

"Oh." She took a step forward, wringing her hands. "I think that might . . . _hurt. _I think that might be bad for him." Mister Still raised an eyebrow, and Rory continued, feeling as though she was rapidly losing the ability to speak: "He has this thing." She pointed at her own ribcage. "Like a wound. Well, it is a wound. A cut . . . he got cut-" 

"Let's get him out of the rain," Mister Still said, not unkindly. 

"They hurt him," Rory said abruptly. "They hurt him really, really-" 

"Who did your face like that?" Mister Still interrupted. "Better not have been Vince." 

_"What?"_

"Did they hurt you, too?" 

"Yes," she whispered, because it was necessary. She couldn't allow even a potential oddball like James Still to think that Jess had hurt her. 

Everything got quiet. There was a tremor. The earth fragmented, and a dark pit opened at Rory's feet. Tree roots protruded from the sides like sinew. Or snakes. The roots undulated slowly, beckoning. The pit called to her. She heard it quite clearly: _Come here. Under the earth it will be dark and lovely._

"Jess?" Rory said uncertainly. 

Mister Still turned to go, and Rory started, shuddering. She ran her hands up and down her arms. Goose bumps. "Jess?" she repeated, in a very small voice. Jess was limp and quiet over Mister Still's shoulders, and that wasn't going to work. At that moment, he was about the only thing in the whole world that she trusted. He had to open his eyes and speak to her. He had to slide an arm around her waist, and drop a kiss on the top of her head, assuring her that he was real and she was real and that was all that mattered. 

But only Mister Still spoke, and what he said was, "Bring the blanket." 

Rory gathered up the wool blanket. Carefully, she edged her way around the hole. Where she walked, the earth crumbled and fell away. She looked down. She couldn't see the bottom. "Whu--why are you helping us?" she stuttered. She wondered why Mister Still hadn't said anything. Didn't he find it a tad . . . unusual? She tore her eyes away from the pit, and applied herself to folding the heavy blanket. There was danger there; she felt very strongly that she _wanted_ to go down in the lovely dark. She amended her question: "_Are_ you helping us?"   
  
He was some distance ahead now, and having skirted the pit, Rory scurried to catch up. She was having trouble with the blanket. She kept treading on the hem.   
  
"Let me confirm something I've been wondering about," James Still began. "Since I got a look at you two, I've been trying to figure it out. This boy--he's been working in your daddy's factory, right?" 

With the blanket piled in her arms, Rory frowned, creasing her forehead. "Factory? My . . . my father doesn't have a factory." 

"He's been busing tables at the club. Made you notice him. You dropped your napkin--he picked it up. Lingered over your hand when he gave it back." 

"Sure," Rory agreed listlessly. "That's exactly the way it went down." What the heck did it matter? There was a _pit_ back there. She glanced over her shoulder. The brush had fallen in behind her, and she couldn't see it anymore. It was very hard to concentrate, knowing it was there. 

"One night, he stood outside your window, calling to you--and you went." 

Startled, she looked up at his back. "Pardon?" How did he know _that?_ Rory bit her lip, flushing. He was making her sound like a character in a romance novel, the worst kind of idiot. She sighed. "Kind of. I guess." 

"He brought you to this place. What I can't figure out, is _why._" 

"The why of it doesn't matter," Rory said tiredly. "It wasn't like that, anyway. Not precisely." 

"Is he trouble?" James Still asked. "Is he more trouble than he's worth?" 

"No." She tromped behind him, her voice sullen. She looked up at Jess, lolling over Still's shoulders, and a flicker of fire licked her heart. "Stop saying bad things about him. You're going to make me angry. It just so happens I'm in love with him." 

That seemed to surprise James Still. He let out a low chuckle.   
  
A branch got caught up in her hair, and Rory pulled away, her eyes watering. "He came to _rescue _me." She was becoming infuriated with Mister Still's temerity. The stupid bastard was lolloping along, la-di-dah, and he wasn't even _looking _for holes. If he fell into one, he'd take her boyfriend with him. "If anybody's more trouble than they're worth, it's probably me." 

"I knew that the moment I saw you." 

Rory's chest rattled, and she had to cough. Her arms were full of the blanket, and she couldn't cover her mouth. Even with the rain weighing down the world, dampening all sound, her cough was loud. So loud, it made her cringe. 

James Still shouldered his way through the brush. "Am I helping you?" He had returned to her earlier question. "Yes. I guess the answer to that is yes. Why?" He paused, obviously considering the question. The rain drummed on the bill of his cap. Rory was beginning to wish she had a cap like that. The pelting rain was rattling her skull. He walked ahead, and finally, he said: "I have absolutely no idea." 

"Just so long as you're _helping,_" Rory said with a grimace. "I'll be very disappointed if I find out later that you're not." 

"You're a bossy little thing," Mister Still observed. 

"I've been told I'm high maintenance." Having no other recourse, she followed him into the woods.   
  


Some time later, Rory was kneeling in the tall grass. She stared intently at a shrub with gold leaves and scarlet berries, amused by the fact that the leaves were the same shape as the raindrops. "You there--Mike Wallace." The voice was behind her, and she jumped. 

"Oh, hey." Talking was an effort. She would have preferred to be quiet. She had to expend energy she didn't have to make herself heard over the weather. "I wondered what happened to you." The rain fell around her like curtains drawn against the night, and she turned back to her private meditation. She took a leaf in her hand and held it close to her nose. It was so fascinating. The leaf had veins, like human skin. _I could be made entirely of leaves, _she thought. _And my clothes would just be flowers._

"You wondered what happened to me," Mister Still said flatly. He replanted his feet, shifting Jess's weight. "I thought you were right behind me. I talked to you for five whole minutes before I realized you were gone. Should have known you couldn't hold your tongue that long." 

"Excuse me," Rory interrupted. "What kind of plant is this? I'm thinking of taking up horticulture. I'm very interested in it." 

Still slid Jess down from his shoulder, and lay him out under a tree. Rory was pleased to see that he was gentle; he cradled Jess's head until he had him settled in the grass. She wondered if there had ever been a man who had handled Jess with care. 

Thoughtful, she tilted her head to the side. She was the one who should be caring for Jess. He belonged to her. She should get to nurse him. Her fingers were arthritic with cold, but she would have liked to at least smooth Jess's hair back from his brow. His mouth was open. She could have planted delicate kisses on his lips, and stuck the tip of her tongue between his teeth. Oddly, she felt she mustn't--something about Jess not wanting to touch her anymore. The thought gave her a pang of heartsickness before she shoved it away, deciding that it was confusing, and therefore immaterial. Besides, she wanted a look at her boyfriend. James Still had been totally hogging him. 

One of Jess's arms had fallen across his waist. The other was in the grass, the palm of his hand upturned, fingers curled inward. His eyes were closed, the lashes a dusky shadow in contrast to his pallor. "Poor Jess," she sighed. "Still asleep?"   
  
Making a face, Still took off his cloudy glasses. He leaned over Rory's shoulder, squinting. "That's called a Lindera benzoin." 

Rory nearly peed herself when his arm came around her from behind. He was holding his knife, and that made _her_ hold her breath. He pulled down one of the branches, and cut it off. "Can you smell that?" 

Watching him out of the corner of her eye, she sniffed. "I--I think so. Oh! Yes, I do, actually. It smells like pepper." 

"It's also called a Spicebush. Among other things, it's a diaphoretic." He cut away some sprigs, and secreted them about his person. He put his knife away. Rory's shoulders relaxed, but shot up again when he asked: "If I gave you the end of a rope--would you hold onto it?" 

Uneasy at the mention of rope, she shrugged away from him. "I don't think so." She glanced at Jess, shaking her head. "No, that wouldn't be a good idea." She noticed that James Still was rolling up the blanket. "I was supposed to carry that." 

"But you didn't." He sighed. "No matter, I'll take it." He was wearing a canvas rucksack, with the leather shoulder straps let all the way out so it hung low on his back. He compressed the blanket into a tight roll, and tied it to the bottom of his pack with some rawhide. 

"Maybe Jess could use it," Rory suggested. "I think he's a little bit chilly." 

Now Mister Still was the one shaking his head. "It would be too hard to carry him, rolled up like a carpet. A tiny person, such as yourself, that's a different story." 

"It's always a different story when it comes to me," Rory said sulkily. She smoothed down the front of the jean jacket. "This is his, you know. He's the one who's supposed to wear it. I told him, but he _made_ me. And boom, he falls over!" Rory took a breath. Her throat was tight, her shoulders quivering. _Jess didn't abandon me_, she told herself sternly. _He didn't! He never gave up. It was his body. It gave up on him._

"Was it a big boom?" he asked vaguely. He didn't seem interested. 

"He forgets his jacket." She looked up at Mister Still, blinking rapidly. "That's how come he got stabbed in the gut." 

Mister Still's eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. "He's got a gut wound? Why didn't you tell me that right away? No wonder he's dead weight." He ran a nervous hand along his jaw. "I should have left him where he fell." 

"I told you. I'm sure I told you." 

He pointed to his ribcage. "You said he was hurt _here._" 

"He _is_ hurt there," Rory explained. "But he puts his hand_ here._" She demonstrated by laying a hand flat to her stomach. "It's all very sore." 

Still frowned, looking uncertain. "That might be manageable," he said slowly. "But if it's a gut wound he's probably septic, and there's nothing I can do for that." He stretched, working first one arm, then the other. "Certainly not under these conditions." He shook his head. "Clean you up, send you on your way. The whole point of this was to keep the police _out of it._" 

"Who said anything about the police?" 

He nodded at her. "You stumble to the main road, half-dressed, boo-hooing about Vince here, lost in the woods . . . before you know it--men with dogs." He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "That there's my private property." 

"Are you on the lam from the law?" Rory inquired innocently. She wasn't trying to give him a hard time. She only wanted to understand his concern. 

"I am _not_ on the lam from the law. I have a quiet life. I like everything just so." He pointed at her. "You tell your wild story, first thing you'll do is mention the black man you met in the woods. It won't matter who did what to you. All they'll care about is me. Considering the parties involved, it will be _easier_ to pin it on me." 

_"Which parties?"_ Rory squeaked, a bubble of dread lodged in her throat. She coughed. "Um, excuse me. Are your motives in this matter altruistic?" 

"Of course they're not altruistic! Who do you think I am? Doctor King? I don't want the attention. I don't want that boy giving up the ghost on my land. Hell. Hell!" He let out a long, frustrated breath. "And . . . I couldn't sit by and let them fall on you like jackals, either." 

"Let--let who?" Rory whispered, as a needle or some object that was equally sharp began to work its way through her intestines. 

"Not to calumniate jackals. I've got nothing against jackals." 

"Who . . . who-?" 

"Trouble with a little white girl. Who did it? The black man." Clearly agitated, he got to his feet. He began to pace. Rory had to scuttle out of the way, or he would have walked over her. 

"Wait. I'm not-" Rory hesitated. She had been about to say that she wasn't at all 'a little girl,' and therefore _perfectly capable _of correctly identifying her assailants to the police--but decided at the last second emphasizing the fact that she was womanly was not a point to make too strongly to a strange man. Crossing her arms over her breasts, she said: "We don't want the police. All we want is to be away from here." 

He went on as if he hadn't heard her. "I'm not burying a body on my property." 

"A body!" Rory put a hand to her throat. She had been trying so hard not to think that. Unconsciously, she picked up the hem of her skirt, and began wringing it in her hands. She swallowed, sniffling, then with glittering eyes and a reckless flash of spirit, accused: "You--you're the one with the massive grave! I'm sure it's filled with so many bones!" 

His forehead creased. "What's this new foolishness?" 

"Whu-where I ripped my skirt." She clamped a hand over her mouth, because she wanted to gag. 

"That thing?" He waved a hand, dismissing the notion of a grave. "That was supposed to be my pit trap. I read about it in a survivalist handbook." He rubbed his chin, looking over Rory's shoulder. With the distant light in his eyes, he might have been considering the trail they had just broken--a trail that led all the way back to the Hartzke brothers' household. Rory was terribly afraid he was going to turn her around, and send her back.   
  
"The days are long," he said finally. "I wanted a project. Thought it would be funny if tubby Eugene fell in." He shrugged. "I got bored of building it, is all. Covered it over with deadfall. You two-" He included Jess with a nod. "You're lucky you're not big people. I can't believe you climbed it. That was when I knew you were too stupid to take care of yourselves." 

Rory shut her mouth with a snap. Through the long speech, her eyes had grown bigger and bigger. The thing that got her--really got her, in the rabbit-in-headlights world she now inhabited--was that there was a person on the planet who would refer to Buddy Hartzke as 'tubby Eugene.' Curling his lip in distaste, Mister Still had dismissed the man who had scared her so badly--_as if he were nothing!_   
  
_Save us,_ she sent telepathically. _This is an Emergency Frequency! Save us, please save us-_

"Let the Hartzkes worry about the bodies. Let them worry about _you._" 

Reeling, her head rocked back. "But you _said!_ You said you were _helping._ Wait-" She cast around for something, anything. "Oh! I can pay you-" She pulled up her skirt. That was when she realized the money she had stolen was gone. Her head swam. What had happened to all that money? Had she lost it in the woods?   
  
She swallowed, and made her decision in the space between two heartbeats, knowing full well that if he took her up on it, she would go mad. "I can pay you," she repeated, her voice faint. "To save us." 

She drew a hand across her eyes. For the first time, she became aware of how filthy she was. She had grime caked under her fingernails. There was mud in her bra and underpants, a gritty residue of failure and heartache. She remembered now, how she and Jess had rolled in the muck like wild things. It was as close to physical intimacy as they were ever going to get. The others would snuffle and slobber until they had their fill, but Jess, the only one she had invited, turned up his nose at his share. He thought she was too dangerous. Rory could have howled. 

She didn't know what to do with her hands.   
  
"I can pay you," she whispered. "Any way you like. It doesn't matter." 

Mister Still made a noise. It might have been disgust. "Why should I negotiate with _you_, when your man is lying right there?" He went to Jess, and pulled up the blue Avon T-shirt. Compared to the living brown of Mister Still's hands, Jess's belly was fish white, and not indigenous to the forest. "I expect if there's an account to settle, he's the one who'll have to do it." He bent over the wound. "What _is_ this?"   
  
Rory couldn't see what he was doing. When he straightened up, he said: "What backstreet quack sewed up this frankensteinian mess?" 

"Um," Rory said uneasily, and he glared at her. 

"I bet you got an A in Home Economics." 

"I'm on the Harvard track. It doesn't include potato chip casseroles." Her face got tight and hot. "I mean, I was on the Harvard track." Her voice dropped. She was having a hard time forcing out the words. "Now . . . all I do is walk. Walk in circles in the forest."   
  
She clasped her hands together, staring at her lap. "Please." She still wasn't sure what was going to happen, and it was like she was speaking from the far side of a mirror. "Please. We walked for so long. Just when we thought it would be over, that something would happen--there we were. Still walking. It seemed like . . . months." She sniffed, and sighed out a wavering breath, staring off in the distance. "I'm tired. I'm so tired. I--I can't stand it. I'm tired . . ." Her voice trailed off. 

She drew herself up and looked at James Still. She had recently spent a lot of time trying to avoid men's eyes, but now she focused on his, so warm and brown and human. Rory said carefully: "The Hartzke brothers worry entirely too much about me. That's been the problem all along." 

"I thought--I thought they had-" Strangely, he seemed flustered. "What were they-?" He fell silent, his head bent. Removing his cap, he scratched behind his ear. "What are you to them?" 

Rory wasn't sure she understood what he meant. "I'm none of their concern. But they got in my life anyway." 

"Dammit," Still said. He started to say something else, stopped himself, and shook his head. He made an odd face, adjusting his glasses. To Rory in her befuddlement, the gesture was almost endearing. Like many people who didn't have to wear glasses, she found them appealing.   
  
Seeming distracted, James Still said, "A tip for future reference. If the stitches hurt, you've done it wrong." 

"Appreciate it." Remembering in a rush the original topic of discussion, she blurted: "They were never dry. I got him wet from the bathtub at the motel. He--he wanted to wash my hair." 

"Bathtub!" He rolled his eyes. "I hope you at least ordered the champagne and strawberries." 

"Motel," she mumbled. "It was a motel. I don't think there was any room service." 

Mister Still shook his head, repeating, "Bathtub." He stuck his finger under the lens of his glasses, and rubbed the corner of his eye. Sighing, he asked: "So, you took a look at that injury, and said to yourself: 'There's a wound that needs sewing?'" 

"No," she said. "No, I--it was _bleeding._" 

"When in doubt, you leave the wound open. It's a good rule of thumb." 

"Forever?" 

He gave her a look that said the _Stupidest Girl Ever_ title was a lock. "Until you can get him to a _hospital._" 

"Oh," said Rory heavily, and her eyelids drooped. The mention of a hospital--that old argument--made her so tired she felt like she was dying. Hospitals were part of daylight life, the real world, where things were ordered and sensible. That was the life she and Jess had left behind. 

"In Vietnam, it was a court-martial offense to prematurely close a wound. Gangrene." 

"Gangrene," Rory groaned, and put her head in her hands. 

"Did you debride the wound in any way shape or form? Splash a little vodka from the mini-bar?" 

"Debride," she moaned. "Oh, no." 

"If we were in the army, I'd have to court-martial _you._" 

"Oh, be my guest," she snapped, more crossly than she'd intended. She had realized too late it was probably not in her best interests to smart-mouth the only person nearby who could carry Jess. _But carry him to where? _she thought. _Has he decided? Oh, shoot. Did I forget to ask what's going on? I always forget to ask!_

He came to a decision; she saw it in his eyes. He opened his pack and pulled out a coil of rope. Rory sat stiffly, knees together, hands clenched in tight fists. She watched warily as he approached. 

When he drew the rope around her back, she turned her head away and made a small, sad sound, but weary resignation kept her from protesting overtly. Before, she had been willing to fight--but she hadn't known then, that he had Jess, too. Jess couldn't protect himself. Jess was a hostage. This time, she would do what she was told, and Jess wouldn't have to be involved at all. If she was quiet, and didn't make him angry, maybe whatever was going to happen wouldn't hurt too badly. 

James Still doubled the rope, and looped it around Rory's waist. He fed the ends of the rope through the U. Rory slid her hand under the rope, thinking, _Shut up! _

She whispered, "What are you going to do?"   
  
He made a complicated tie over her bellybutton. She couldn't have picked loose the knot. He had somehow wound up with both ends of the rope in his hand. Anxiously, she looked over her shoulder. There were so many trees. If he wanted to be rid of her, all he had to do was fasten her to one. She was glad to be away from the lake. The pirates had tied Tiger Lily to a rock and left her to drown--a bad way to go. Her eyes filmed over. If Still left her here, the animals would eat her up, and that would be the end of Rory. Either that, or the Hartzkes would find her, which amounted to the same thing. 

The Hartzkes. Would he tell them where she was? She'd rather get chewed up by bears. Her heart fluttered, and refused to resume its normal rhythm. She thought she might be having a heart attack. "Please," she whispered. "You don't have to. Whatever you're thinking--don't. Just let us go. Okay? Okay? I mean, this really doesn't have anything to do with you. So why be bothered?"   
  
In a minute he was going to bind her hands and feet, and she wouldn't be able to move. There was a terrible pressure behind her eyes, almost as if a hand was rifling through her brains. Flashes, like a series of slides: living room, kitchen, bedroom, basement. They were so vivid she could smell them, and with a sick feeling in her stomach, she realized she was feeling the sticky tape, the way the ropes cut her skin, and rough hands--hands everywhere, touching her. 

"I won't say anything!" she cried in desperation. "I promise! I'll never mention that I met you. To _anybody._ Jess doesn't even have to know-" She choked, remembering that there was a possibility that for Jess, all this might be after the fact, an epilogue he would never get to read. She went on wildly, the words spilling over each other: "I'll take him really far away! Oh, I promise, I promise! You can forget you ever met me-" 

He got to his feet, and in a move that really frightened her, slung Jess back over his shoulders. "Wait!" Rory cried. "Oh, please--wait! We have to stay together, he said so! It's very important!" 

He tugged on the rope, and before she knew it, she was on her toes, attached to this strange, mercurial man by an umbilical cord she wasn't sure she wanted to sever. "I want to make something perfectly clear," he told her. "If they find out I had a thing to do with you--any of them--I'm through. So, if I have to leave you-" He looked over her head. It was like he didn't want to look her in the eyes. Taking a breath, he continued: "If I have to leave you, you won't be doing any talking, ever." 

"Oh," said Rory, feeling hollow. Her shoulders sagged. "Juh-Jess too?" 

"Would he be very happy to wake up and find his little girl missing?" 

"No." Her voice was soft. "I guess not." 

"Him too," Mister Still said. "Because that kind of trouble I really don't need." 

"I understand," Rory said numbly. Mister Still took up the rope slack, and turned carefully, balancing Jess. He used his knee to shove a low branch out of the way. Rory hadn't been ready, and when the rope tightened she gasped, "Oof!" Her shoulders jerked back before she caught herself and was able to stumble forward. Her feet were leaden, and her ankles felt like brittle twigs. She waved her arms for balance, and her sleeves slid down her arms. She caught sight of the red bands around her wrists and focused elsewhere, quickly, before her stomach began to churn. _Can he tell just by looking? Does he know what they did?_ The thought upset her.   
  
He walked on, and Rory was left to trail in his wake like a tatty kite dragging on the ground. One of Jess's arms dangled loosely down Still's back. Rory was troubled by his hand. She liked Jess's hands. Since she had first met him, she'd thought of them often, slightly swoony with nebulous fancy. This hand was bleached and waxy--not Jess. Rory needed to touch him very badly, but Mister Still was tall and his stride was long; she was having a hard time keeping up. She floated to the end of her cord, and lost sight of them, as branches closed in front of her in succession like the feathery fans of Ziegfeld Follies dancers. 

With a start, she realized exactly how much poor, sick Jess had helped her the previous night. Those beautiful trees, with their rainblack bark, were _sly._ They pulled her hair like nasty schoolgirls, and they would not stop talking! It was getting on her last nerve. They were literally trying to undress her, grabbing her clothes at every opportunity. They took tiny items: scrapes of skin, droplets of blood, threads from her skirt. She wouldn't have been at all surprised if they ganged up on her, branches twining about her throat and wrists and ankles, and pulled her open like a starfish. She would struggle as she always did, pathetically, and to no avail. When they tired of her whimpering, they would stuff her mouth with leaves. They would hang her in the thorns and vines, and call to the crows: _Come eat her. _ The trees accepted the others, but they didn't want her to pass. She blinked fuzzily, and her chin dropped and touched her chest. _I think the forest is trying to steal my boyfriend._

The rope jerked. It was painful. She snapped forward, not really closing in on the men, although she did catch a glimpse of Mister Still's butt before she began again to fall behind.   
  
What was it to James Still if the Hartzkes caught them? Why did he care? Her eyes narrowed. _Who the heck _is_ this guy?_ Mister Still, while weird, did not radiate the unpredictable malice she associated with the Hartzke brothers. _ Why . . . I--I don't believe what he said, _she thought. In her mind's eye, she saw him laying Jess in the grass, careful not to jostle his head. Was that the act of a man who would . . . kill? _ I think it was talk. Tough talk._ She shivered, following that up with: _I hope._

Urgently, she crashed forward, until she was almost caught up. "Wait!" 

Still shot her an irritated look. "What now?" 

"What you said--does that mean you think he's going to wake up?" Her words were flat in her ears, but talking dispelled a little of the creepy woodland mystique. 

"I think so." He sounded thoughtful. With a shock, Rory realized that for James Still, the question of Jess's health was academic. He wasn't in agony over Jess, wouldn't live or die along with him. It was a puzzle, and he was looking forward to trying his hand at the solve. "I think I can doctor him up. But I'm not making any promises." 

Rory was absurdly grateful for even the slimmest glimmer of hope. "I was so afraid," she confessed. "I was so afraid he wouldn't. He--he was talking like-" 

"Dehydration," Still commented absently. "Oh, he was suffering. He would have felt like it was the end of the world. I can tell by looking. It's the eyes, the skin. And it makes a man say crazy things. Funny when he's so wet." 

"Yeah, that's really funny. Ironic." 

"All he needed was to take fluid. Gradually, over time. Doesn't he have any sense?" He looked Rory up and down in a manner that made her uncomfortable, and answered his own question. "I guess not."   
  
"That's not entirely fair." She hunched her shoulders and covered her chest, trying to make herself less interesting to look at. "He--he tried. He did try. He's not a boy scout." 

"But he has other talents? Like calling little bluebirds out of their nests?" He raised an eyebrow, causing Rory to color and look away. 

James Still wound the end of the rope around his free hand, and gave it a tug. It tightened on Rory's waist, and she took an involuntary step forward. "Keep up. You have exactly one chance, and this is it." 

She hurried to do as he said.   
  


Rory shuffled along, one hand groping in front of her, the other arm bent over her face. She couldn't see a thing. When they'd come upon the tipped over tree where Jess had ripped his jeans and scraped the back of his knee, her eyes had widened. She hadn't been expecting to pass this way again.   
  
Like a Vegas magic act, Mister Still had pulled a bandana out of his pocket and instructed her to tie it over her eyes. At her look of panic, he cocked his head to the side, redistributing Jess's weight over his shoulders. He refused to answer her increasingly breathy questions, and only stared at her stolidly. Rory had been badly shaken, just when she'd been settling down. Up until that point, nothing bad had happened. She'd begun to unwind, hoping nothing would.   
  
The rain drenched landscape had once again taken on the quality of a nightmare, as Rory folded the bandana into a triangle. Without having to be told, she made another fold. Trembling, she raised her arms to tie the scarf at the back of her head. The point of the triangle tickled her nose.   
  
Still checked the knot with his free hand, pulling Rory's hair in the process. She had been crying freely at that point, and was unmindful of another injury.   
  
Mister Still had said: "You're just a baby, aren't you?" There'd been a tone in his voice Rory hadn't understood. "When Vince here wakes up, I'm going to have questions."   
  
He made her turn in circles until she was dizzy, and had no idea which way was which. Recalling that later, Rory would reflect that he could have saved himself the trouble. She'd had a splitting headache, and been numb with cold. The most annoying high-pitched whine grated in her ears. She would have had no idea which way was which if she'd had a map, a compass, and an orienteering expert at her elbow.   
  
They passed the obstacle without climbing either under or over, and Rory had been mystified. The previous night, she and Jess had been positive there was no other way around. _Shows how much we know,_ she'd thought wryly, and bizarrely, had felt . . . lucky. _We could have stumbled into anything._

After that, they moved through dark country, all the more ominous in that it was unseen. Mister Still nudged her ahead on her leash, calling out 'right,' 'left,' and 'your _other_ left,' in a low voice. Sometimes, he'd said things to her like: "Easy . . . go sideways. Bend your knees. Duck, girl! You want a conk on the noggin? Step. That's it. Once more. Now--forward, march." 

At first, she had tripped a great deal, and branches came out of nowhere to whip her face. She caught her foot under a root, and had to hop in place as she slid back into her saddle shoe. Once, something poked her directly in the throat. She spun away, choking. Waving her hands wildly, she had gotten the impression there were pointy things beneath her. Still gave the rope a sharp tug, and that had been the only thing that had prevented her from plunging headfirst into the underbrush.   
  
Now though, she had the rhythm. She was past hurt, past tired--out of sheer desperation, she had vaulted herself onto some higher plain of Zen. She was Daniel-san in the crane stance at the end of _Karate Kid._ She listened for the sound of Still's voice, and her mantra, over and over, was that she could do it, she would do it, she _would_ keep going. The simple fact was that she had to, for Jess's sake. 

As for the uncertainty and embarrassment of being herded through the woods like a blind cow to market, Rory reasoned that she was completely inured. The Hartzke brothers had debased her in so many ways that the humiliation of her present situation was comparatively minor. Then, take the bathroom incident before the tree, before the blindfold. She had survived that, hadn't she? No. She couldn't sink any lower.   
  


"Um," Rory said nervously. "I have to-" and she looked away, unable to meet his eyes. 

"Take your pick," Still said, waving his hand at the trees. "But be quick about it." 

"Here?" She knew as she said it she was being stupid. "But-" 

"Oh, excuse _me,_ miss." He put the ends of the rope between his teeth so he could pluck a handful of leaves from a nearby bush. He offered them to her, and took the rope from his mouth. "Don't forget to tip the lady with the hand towels. She might be one of my relatives." 

"This isn't poison oak, is it?" She thought he was just the sort of person who would find that funny. 

"So, what you're saying is--you want to hold it." 

To which Rory replied: "I'm going, I'm going, keep your shirt on." She winced, blushing furiously, because the last thing she wanted to do was remind this man about clothes, or the barely contained fear that, despite his earlier declaration of disinterest, he might at some point take some of his off--and some of hers, as well. 

Jaw tight, she set her shoulders and pushed aside the vines, pressing as far into the brush as she could. There was a tug on her waist, and he called, "That's the end of your line, bluebird."   
  
She paused for a moment, hesitant, then stepped carefully out of her panties. Lifting her skirt, she squatted in the grass. At first she didn't think she'd be able to do it--the wilderness seemed so _open_--but after a moment her guts lurched. She became lightheaded, and began to suspect that the moisture beaded on her upper lip wasn't rain. "Oh, God," she groaned. "I feel terrible." 

She rejoined James Still on the trail, holding up her hands to be washed in the rain. He was jolly, and when they began to walk again, told her a joke that involved Len and Buddy Hartzke arguing over tracks in the woods until a train came along and killed them both. Rory managed a wan smile, more to appease him than anything else. _I think I'm really sick,_ she thought anxiously. _What am I going to do? _ The next thought was distant, as forlorn as the call of a loon. She couldn't stop herself. _I want my Mom._   
  


She had the sense that the trees had opened up, and they were walking across a muddy field. James Still startled her by telling her to move her hand. He used the scary voice, to good effect. But her knee banged something--a low stone wall? She wondered why he hadn't wanted her to touch it. It came to her: _A landmark._ And then: _He doesn't want me to know what it looks like. He doesn't want me to be able to find this place again. _ The implications of that were heartening. It meant James Still thought that at some point--she would be leaving. 

_Home,_ she thought. _I get to go home._ Her throat closed up. She put her knuckle in her mouth and bit down hard, because she had to quash silly thoughts like that. She didn't have a home anymore. 

They walked up a short incline, following the wall. Rory knew this because she touched it, surreptitiously she thought, until Still barked at her to put her hands behind her back. "You know what? I'm getting tired of you." He said this meanly, although Rory suspected he wasn't tired of her so much as he was just tired. She knew _she_ was, and she wasn't the one who'd been carrying Jess all this way. "Tuck your hands in under that rope." 

_ "What?"_

"Do what I tell you." 

"I--I'm so sore," she sniveled, aiming her complaint in his general direction. "My hands. Please don't make me be tied up like that, it hurts." 

"We're almost there," he said shortly, and that was that. She had to make her way without her arms for balance. 

They walked a little longer. Rory thought she might be leaning too far forward, but then she lost track of which way was up, and decided not to try to rectify the problem. She lost the feeling in her arms. Her head thudded, and while before it had been whole blackness, now light pulsed in the corner of her eye. Still guided her around one more obstacle. "Now we go down." 

Rory froze. "Duh-down where?" 

"Step down," he said. "Feel your way along the wall. You can use your hands." 

"Down where?" Rory repeated. "I don't want to go down." 

"There are sixteen steps. Come on, now." He gave her a soft shove. She took one clumsy step down, her foot falling heavily on a wide, stone stair. 

Rory turned sharply, and tried to go back up. "Sixteen steps to where? Where is this?" Her voice went up almost an entire octave. "Is this a basement? I don't want to go down in the basement!" She began to hyperventilate. She hadn't been able to get her hands free, so when her knees gave, she couldn't stop herself from sinking. Still caught the shoulder of her jacket, preventing her from tumbling backward down the stairs. He hauled her up to where he was, and let her down slowly, until she was kneeling in the mud. 

"It was you." Mister Still's voice was pained. "It was you, all along." He let out a sad sigh. "I--that's a _child,_ I thought. They've stolen a child to ransom. And then it was quiet. I thought to myself--it's only my imagination, playing tricks on me. But I knew. I did know. But . . . I thought they had taken a _child_ . . ." 

"This is very Deus ex Machina!" Rory squirmed, but she wasn't even sure where her hands were. "You showing up out of the rain. I don't think I entirely trust you! Who do you think you are? Euripides? No, no." She shook her head and almost fell forward. She spread her knees for balance. She had terrible vertigo, aware of the drop-off at her back. She didn't know what to do, where to go. She thought she might be dying. "I'm not going anywhere with you!"   
  
"You already did go somewhere with me." There was a faraway noise, and he grunted. 

"That's exactly the problem! I think I've made a terrible mistake!" Rory felt a tug on her waist. James Still slid an arm around her back, and another under her knees. "But where is Jess?" she moaned. "What are you doing?" She sat stiffly in his arms as they descended, and felt the walls close in around them. "Where are the animals? I don't hear anything. Where are all the snakes?"   
  
At the bottom of the stairs he set her on her feet, supporting her in the crook of his arm. Rory heard a clank. After that, there was a prolonged, low creak, that ended in a hollow thunk. Still picked her up again, and carried her across the threshold. 

_ "No,"_ Rory whispered, terrified. 

He set her down a final time. The floor was uneven under the soles of her saddle shoes. She tottered, backing away with small, unsteady steps.   
  
Still caught her, and turned her. He helped her with her hands. "Bluebird--you don't have to cry anymore. You're safe." He touched her face softly before Rory felt him move away. "I have to get Vince before he drowns." 

"Safe," Rory repeated dubiously. She had no idea what the word meant.   
  
  


~ * ~

To be continued . . .

A/N: Thanks for reading. Sorry you had to wait so long. Thanks for the terrific reviews, and by that I mean thanks for being serious about writing in and saying: _I'm here, I read. _ Sometimes you make me think about my own writing in a new light, and that's cool, really wild. I'd like to thank RubyKate and kimlockt for their support and encouragement. I know you guys are crazy about kim's fine story, **Being Right is Overrated.** I'd like to invite you to turn your eyes to Ruby's sweet, sad tale, **Home. ** I think it's very special. 


	20. 20

_For **RubyKate** and **kimlockt**, with affection. Thank you both so much for beta reading._   


20. 

Rory heard Still thump down the stairs, and turned a blind face to the sound. There was a creak, and a low moan. "I think he might be coming around," Still murmured. "Just in time. You missed a good hike, boy." 

There were indistinct syllables, another moan. Rory heard the flare of a match. It got lighter on the other side of the blindfold. Still caught her wrist, surprising her, and drew her forward. "Here she is. Boy? She's right here." 

"Jess?" Rory reached out, couldn't find him. 

"Why didn't you take off the blindfold?" 

"I–I didn't know I was allowed." 

Still passed behind her, and undid the knot. "You only do what you're told?" 

"I don't know," Rory mumbled, remembering the sand scratchy wind of Asbury Park. "I guess not." She blinked at the light--it was a lantern, suspended over a long table. Jess was stretched out on his back, eyelids fluttering. His lower lip quivered, and he moved his mouth silently. 

"My God," Rory breathed. 

When Jess focused on her, some of the frantic alarm went out of his eyes. His face slackened. "What's happening?" Rory said sharply. "What's he doing?!" 

"He's gone," said Still. 

"_What_?" 

"No, no. He's out again." 

"Oh, Jess," Rory whispered, her knees weak. She gripped the edge of the table. She looked up at Mister Still. "But he's coming back, right? You–you can doctor him up?" 

"I'll try."   
  


Even though she wasn't sure if she was a prisoner--and she kind of suspected she was--it was a much better basement. For starters, there were no snakes. While the feel of the place was undeniably subterranean, a stone floor and white washed walls made the big, rectangular room dryer than Rory's cold cell back at the Hartzke house. When James Still knelt on the hearth of a soot-blackened fireplace, touching a match to some crumpled newspaper and kindling, Rory had reason to hope this basement would be warmer, too.   
  
She took a small step away from the table, her loose leash slithering behind her like a tail. She didn't want to leave Jess alone while he was so vulnerable, but her head was spinning. A few minutes ago, she had been sobbing in terror, expecting Mister Still to hand her off to one of the Hartzkes, who would in turn escort her into a small cage. She really did have to know what sort of place she was in.   
  
In addition to the fireplace, there was a wood stove. A counter with a sink ran along the wall adjacent to the outside door. There were cupboards above the sink, and hooks for pots and pans. Rory tilted her head to the side, momentarily taken with the sight of a cheese grater. Whoever Mister Still was, he liked cheese.   
  
Hanging from the ceiling in what Rory supposed was the kitchen area, there were dried herbs and flowers, including bloodless, upside down roses. "Witches don't like roses," Mister Still offered, when he saw her upturned face. Rory couldn't tell if he was kidding. He stretched, taking a pinch from one of the herbs. "This is for you." 

"What is it?" she asked, her eyebrows drawing together in confusion. 

"Thyme." He took off his cap and hung it by the door. "Maybe it will help with your hysteria problem." When he turned away to unzip his jacket, Rory dusted off her hands, and the desiccated leaves crumpled and vanished. Still turned back to her. "Do you want to hang up your coat?" 

Embarrassed, Rory shook her head. "I don't have-" She crossed her arms over her chest, and put her hands on her shoulders. "No, thank you," she finished. 

Mister Still took down a cast-iron pot, and filled it at the sink. He put on a pair of worn oven mitts, and hung the pot over the fire. "You're dripping." 

Rory looked down at her feet. There was a puddle around her saddle shoes. "I didn't mean to," she said nervously. 

Mister Still picked up an iron poker. He opened the door of the wood stove, and gave the fire a stir. "And you're muddy," he observed. He caught up a black kettle and shook it, peering under the lid. He filled the kettle from the tap, and put it back on the stove. "Try not to get dirt everywhere." Grumbling under his breath, he squeezed past her at the table. He continued deep into the room, passing a four-poster bed that was further down, but on the same wall as the fireplace. Hanging from the ceiling, there was a curtain that looked as if it extended as far as the foot of the bed, to separate the bed from the living area. 

Past the bed, a narrow set of stairs ran up the far wall. Under the stairs, there was a wardrobe with mirrors on the doors, and beside that, a small door. Mister Still seemed to be using the stairs themselves as a bookcase, and the sight of all those books made Rory's breath catch in her throat. She couldn't stop herself from drifting toward them. She picked out a copy of _Another Country_. The dust jacket was charred, and she frowned.   
  
When Mister Still reemerged from the door under the stairs, bent and lugging a heavy metal tub, she asked him, "Where do these stairs go?" 

"Nowhere, now. What are you doing?" 

"I'm not sure," she conceded, with a glance over her shoulder. 

"Go stand over by your man, until I tell you different." 

"Can I read this?" She held up the book. 

"Now?" 

"At some point, I mean." 

"Haven't you read it?" 

"Well, sure." 

"There's a paperback copy," he sighed. "Take that one." He trod over Rory's rope as he carried the tub to the sink. Rory gave the rope a quick, troubled glance before turning her attention to hunting for the paperback. While her boyfriend's poor condition represented a tight ache swelling in her heart, she found the normalcy of handling books to be pacifying. Slowly, she began to relax. The shelves were alphabetized, but _Another Country_ wasn't with the other Baldwin novels. Finally, she located it, misfiled between a pair of Julian Mayfield novels: _The Hit_, and _The Long Night_. Distantly, she heard the sound of water running. 

Rory carried the book over to Mister Still, who was setting up the big tub in front of the fire. "You're following me around like a little puppy dog," he complained. "It's exactly what I was afraid of."   
  
There was an armchair facing the fireplace, and a little table with another lantern. Rory's hands were shaking, so she had to be careful not to knock the lantern when she put her book on the table for safekeeping. 

High in the wall, sat a small, shuttered window. Still threw back the shutters, and opened the glass, explaining, "We'll want the air." Returning to the kitchen table, he gave Jess some close scrutiny. He turned Jess's face to the side. He pulled up Jess's eyelids, and even examined the inside of his mouth. "Sooner I wake you up, boy, the better. Then she can follow your lead, and leave me out of it." From a drawer under the tabletop, he got out a tight bundle of cloth, and unrolled it with a flick of his wrist. 

Rory came forward to take up Jess's cold hand. "Is . . . is that . . . a _scalpel_?" The cloth contained a number of instruments. 

Without looking up, Mister Still said, "There's a knife on the cutting board. You can get rid of that rope. Don't cut yourself." 

"Oh." She hesitated. 

"Get," he said, his attention on Jess. Rory gave Jess's hand a gentle squeeze before she slipped away, trailing the long end of the rope behind her. 

Rejoining Mister Still at the table, she was just in time to see him cut away Jess's T-shirt with a pair of scissors. Rory was shocked; it was as if he'd cut away a layer of Jess's skin. The light from the lantern splashed Jess's chest and stomach, revealing, like hidden rot, the random discoloration of recent bruising. The sight made Rory's stomach churn. Still moved to the end of the table. He seemed to want to cut away Jess's jeans. "Stop," Rory said helplessly. "Oh, _stop_. He won't have anything to wear!" 

Still frowned. He looked over his shoulder, perhaps checking whether or not the kettle had boiled. "Go back to the shelf. Look for a big book with a red cover." 

"The shelf? Oh, you mean the _stairs_. But-" Rory put her hand on Still's wrist. "Please don't cut anything _else_." Mister Still's glasses reflected the lantern, and with his improbable collection of tools, he was coming off like a mad scientist. 

"Fine." Still shook away her hand, sounding aggrieved. "But you're making life harder than it has to be." 

"I just–he needs his _clothes_." 

"He's not going to need _anything_ if you don't get out of my way. Now, fetch me that book." 

With a lingering glance at her pale and silent boyfriend, Rory went back to the improvised shelves, and after a short search, located the book. "_Alphonse Fisher-Wavey's Big Book of Survival Tips_," she read aloud. "_Or, What to do in the event of World War Three_." She flipped it open. "_Keep your daughters under lock and key. In the event of civil unrest, traveling bands of marauders will rape and kidnap_ . . . oh." She slammed the book shut. "I don't think I want to read this." 

"Look up Oral Rehydration Formula," Still told her. "It's in the appendix." 

"Half a teaspoon of salt," Rory read. "Half a teaspoon of baking soda." She looked up. "This is for Jess? How–how can he drink it? He's _unconscious_." 

"He needs an IV." Mister Still was trying to take off Jess's shoe, picking at a knot in the shoelace. "An antibiotic, as well." 

Rory raised an eyebrow. "You can do that?" 

"Nope." Mister Still had gotten the lace untied. He pulled off both of Jess's shoes and dropped them on the floor. 

"But–but . . . the fluid?" 

He wiped his hands on the seat of his pants. "We could stick a tube up his ass." 

"Oh, no," Rory gasped, and Mister Still laughed. He rolled off Jess's socks, and discarded them as well. 

"That's one way to rehydrate an unconscious person. I wouldn't want to try it. Relax. He woke. He'll wake again." 

"Do you promise?" Rory used her knee to balance the book, because it was heavy. 

"No." Mister Still unbuckled Jess's belt. 

"I–I wish you wouldn't undress him. I don't think you need to." 

"Make yourself useful, little bluebird." With a grunt, he began to work down the wet jeans, baring the sharp jut of Jess's hipbone. "Because I'm regretting you already." 

"But he won't like it if you undress him. It will upset him." Still shot her a look, and quickly, Rory said, "Okay, okay." She consulted the recipe. "Do–do you have any sugar? It says you need sugar." 

"Over the sink." 

Rory found a canister labeled in a spidery script with the word "sugar." She set it on the counter by the sink. Searching for a teaspoon, she opened a drawer in the kitchen counter. She closed it with a bang. 

Mister Still groaned. "What now?" 

"Nuh–nuh–nothing," Rory stuttered. 

"Are you looking for a spoon?" Still opened the drawer, and seawater sloshed out. He plunged in his hand, all the way up to the elbow. Rory watched in sick fascination, for the drawer had been full of creatures. She had distinctly seen fish and crabs. There might have been a lobster. 

"Your suit is getting wet," she pointed out, because at some point when she hadn't been looking, he'd changed clothes again. Now, he was wearing a black suit coat, and a narrow tie. His hair had taken on the faintest reddish tinge. Rory frowned. "When our people are being bitten by dogs . . ." she said quietly, experimentally. 

". . . they are within their rights to kill those dogs." Mister Still finished the quote automatically, like it was a countersign. "What's the matter with you? And they're not your people, lily-white. They're _mine_." 

"I know," she assured him. "I–I don't think I know what I'm saying." He held out a quivering sea anemone, and Rory gulped. She closed her eyes, and extended her hand. Her fingers closed around an ordinary kitchen spoon. "Is this real?" she asked. "Are you real?" 

Still looked at her over his glasses, his face grave. "What do you see?" 

"I don't know what you mean," she mumbled. 

"How long has it been since you had any sleep?" 

"Does being unconscious count?" she asked. Mister Still made a noise. To Rory, he sounded irritated, and she cringed, a fat teardrop sliding down her cheek.   
  
"That's enough," Still snapped. He wrenched the spoon away from her, and caught her by the upper arm.   
  
"No, _please_," she moaned, and tried to pull away. 

He marched her to the fireplace, and pushed her into a straight back chair. "Sit!" He left her there, with the instruction, "Stay!" 

Rory wanted to go to the table and be with Jess, but was afraid to get up. She turned sideways in the chair, hooking her heels over the rungs. She wiped her nose on the sleeve of her jacket.   
  
Still came back with a towel, a washcloth, and a cake of soap. He handed them to her. "What's this?" Rory sniffled and wiped her eyes. She looked at the tub, and her stomach dropped. "But . . . I can't bathe. Not here. Not like this." She was starting to feel very sick. The tub was for her? She hadn't understood that. She swallowed. Was he really expecting her to take of her clothes in front of him? 

"You already went to the bathroom. You might as well go ahead and clean yourself up." 

"I don't think I understand what you mean," Rory said, and he sighed. 

"Nobody can be this stupid. I'm taking it as a matter of faith that the problem here is that you're tired." 

"Excuse me?" 

"Spell the word 'world' backwards," Mister Still demanded. 

"What? Why?" She thought about it for a second, and discovered she couldn't. "I don't think I care to." Mister Still let out a long breath, and closed his eyes. "I could try spelling something else," Rory offered. 

"Shut up a minute. I'm counting to ten." When Still had finished counting, he opened his eyes. His voice was eerily careful as he said, "I have work to do. Sit there. Be _quiet_. And when I tell you to do something, I expect you to do it." 

"But, I want to help take care of Jess-" 

He held up his hand. "Stop talking. Stop talking, right now." 

"And _bathing_-" Rory shivered. "I once saw an episode of _The X-Files_, and there was this guy--he made women take ice cold baths-" 

"I don't know what you're talking about." 

"Please, don't make me get in the tub," she begged, wiping her eyes. 

"It won't be cold." He pointed to the pot over the fire. "I'm heating the water for you right now. The kettle, too." 

"But, I'm not comfortable-" 

"I've been up all night, too. In addition to this mess," he waved a hand at Jess, "I have to get to work." 

"Work?" Rory repeated. "You have a job?" 

Mister Still's lips got very thin. "I'm not above knocking a little sense into a woman. Or a little silence, either." 

"Oh," Rory whispered, and that was when the kettle began to hiss and steam. 

Mister Still had hung a sheet between two chairs. As a privacy screen, Rory found it lacking--it was only as high as her shoulders. Nevertheless, she eased off her shoes with a tired sigh. She had already begun to unbutton her jacket when she heard a noise. She jumped and spun around, her cheeks pink. Still was dragging a trunk by a rope handle. "Sorry. Just thought of it." He deposited the trunk at her feet. 

"Wha–what's that?" 

"Ladies' things. Clothes." 

"Oh." Rory shuddered, her head dipping sharply. It probably wasn't prudent, but she had to ask, "After–after you kill me, are you going to put _my_ clothes in there?" 

"Is there some sort of medication you should be taking?" Still crossed his arms over his chest, and Rory scrunched up her nose. She had only just noticed he was back in his ordinary clothes: a green flannel shirt with a thermal peeking out at the collar, and army surplus pants. In a slow, clear voice, he said, "Find . . . yourself . . . something . . . _dry_." 

"Pardon?" 

"Hang your things by the fire. You can use one of the straight back chairs." There were several such chairs, with woven seats, scattered around the room. 

"Oh," she said, without meeting his eyes. "It's just, you said you might kill me. I don't know what to do to keep you from doing that." 

Still looked away. "Those were my mother's," he said stiffly. "I'll want them back." 

"Of course. Of course you will." She bit her lip, unsure. "Thank you," she added, in an undertone. When he was safely away, Rory skimmed the bath water with her hand. It was steaming lightly. She glanced over the privacy screen, to assure herself that Mister Still wasn't peeking. He was busy at the table with his back to her, taking care of Jess. 

Without removing her jacket, Rory unhooked her bra, and slid it out her sleeve. She put a foot on the edge of the tub, and rolled down her stocking. She stripped away the other one, and dropped them both on the floor. They were wrecked; she wouldn't be able to put them on again. She cleared her throat. "I'm getting in now."   
  
Still didn't respond. Crouching, she quickly finished undressing, and climbed into the tub. She eased into the water, hissing at the heat. She wrapped her arms around her legs, and sat with her forehead resting on her knees. She was so sore, and her bare back felt bony and very naked. After a moment, she thought of her under things. She leaned over the side of the tub, and snagged her panties off the floor. She began to scrub them with the soap. "What are you doing, now?" she asked. She could only see his shadow sliding across the sheet, and the silence was heavy. 

"Removing your stitches," he replied. 

"Why?" Rory hung her panties over the edge of the tub. 

His voice floated over the screen. "Do you know what 'necrotic' means?" 

Holding the washcloth to her cheek, Rory stilled. She had to swallow twice, to keep from gagging. "Is–is it . . . is he _necrotic_?" 

"You made too many stitches. And they were too tight. That's why they pained him so." She heard him open the drawer again. "You could have killed the skin. Some of them already ripped." 

"Oh," she whispered. "I told him he couldn't carry me." 

"Never you mind," Still said shortly. "I'm taking care of it." Rory heard him put something down, and pick something else up. 

"Are they infected?" 

"No red lines," Mister Still replied. "No pus, no bad smell. But who knows?" 

"Did–did I hurt him?" 

"Did you cut him?" There was a faint sound on the other side of the privacy screen; Rory couldn't place it. "Lovers' quarrel?" 

"No," she said sullenly. Sighing, she leaned back in the tub. Her head was thick; with an effort, she forced herself to sit up. She could not fall asleep, and leave Jess all alone with this strange man. She lathered the soap, rolling it between her hands. "I guess . . . I guess it _was_ my fault he got cut. In the big picture." The soap squirted out of her hands, and instead of bringing her knees together, she opened them, and lost it in the murky depths of her bath. 

"Shut up and scrub," Mister Still murmured, sounding distracted. 

"All right," Rory said under her breath. "All right." She coughed, blinking at the little black spots that were drifting past her eyes. When she was able, she found the washcloth--it was floating under the water--and rung it out. She drew the cloth up one arm, and down the other. She scrubbed her face, her breasts, even between her legs. Where she hurt, she scrubbed harder. She realized she was crying again. She found that it was important to her to wash every place they had touched.   
  


She asked for a hairbrush, but Still told her he didn't own one, so when she had combed her hair as best she could with her fingers, Rory got out of the tub. She wrapped herself in the towel. Kneeling, she opened the trunk. 

"Okay?" Still said behind her, and she bounced to her feet. Heart racing, she picked up her jacket, and wondered if she should put her shoes back on. The idea wasn't at all appealing. 

Still had his back to her. In the time she had bathed, a lot of things seemed to have happened. He moved to one side, and Rory saw that Jess was naked, except for a towel covering his groin. There was a bandage on his forehead, and another wrapped around his middle. James Still was holding a little bowl in one hand, and dabbing something on Jess's collarbone. As she watched, he shoved up one of Jess's arms, and began to dab there too, right above the armpit. 

"Little bird?" James Still tried again. 

"I'm–I'm okay," Rory assured him. She was concerned that he might turn and look for her if she didn't speak. "I'm looking for something to put on." 

She knelt, shooting a nervous glance at the privacy screen. Jess was _naked_. She had to hurry up. She looked in the trunk, only to falter in bemusement. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "I don't-" 

"Nightgown," he said. "I know there's a nightgown." 

"A nightgown?" 

"You're going to bed." 

"But it's daytime," she hedged. 

"I'm going to give you something to drink." 

"What sort of drink?" she asked suspiciously. She had found the nightgown. It was a long, white affair, with a line of smocking that ran from seam to seam, directly under her breasts. There was a yellow ribbon running through eyelets around the neckline, which she tied in a bow. 

"Cough syrup," he said. "The good kind. Like you had out in the Barrens." 

"Okay," she said agreeably. She had liked that. Holding the gown up out of the way, she padded to the table. 

"Did you hang your things to dry?" 

"No," she sighed, but made no move to do so. "What are you doing?" 

"This is for his burns," he explained. "A salve. We might put some on your wrists." 

"Oh, I don't need any, thanks." Rory frowned. "But, he only has one burn." 

"There are several," James Still said tightly. He crossed Jess's wrists over his head, and showed her. "He was tied this way." He pointed with his pinkie finger. "Here and here they burned him. Cigarettes. The sleeves of his shirt bunched up so they could get at the skin under his arms-" 

"Under his arms?" Rory repeated. "That's not the way it was. I was there. I'm the one who rescued him." 

"Now-" 

"His hands were like this!" She put her hands behind her back, turning to show him. 

"Okay," he said. "I'm sure you're right. I made a mistake." 

"You bet you did. He took that burn for _me_. I was _hiding_. He was only _pretending_ to be unconscious. He didn't want them to know I was there. He-" A chill shot through her body, and she broke off, breathless. "What?" 

Mister Still raised his eyebrows. "_What_ what?" 

"Um-" She was lost, and didn't want him to know. She had to get him to talk, to say something that would give her a clue to what they had been discussing. More than a little panicked, she cast about for a comment, something noncommittal. Seconds ticked by, and she couldn't come up with anything. Finally, her curiosity got the better of her. "His stitches?" She hoped she hadn't had this discussion with him already. She didn't want him to think she was _crazy_. 

"There's just a dressing there, now. I'll check later, see if there's any discharge. But he needs to stay clean. And _dry_." He shook a finger at her. "Don't entice him into your bath with your feminine wiles." 

"My wiles?" Rory repeated. 

Still's upper lip twitched. He began to gather his instruments into a green basin. "If he takes a turn for the worse, I'll carry him out, and he can take his chances at County." 

Rory bit her lip. "He won't want that," she said in a low voice. "But-" 

"On the bright side," Still interrupted, "there are no broken bones. Nothing big, anyhow. Maybe–might be a fracture. He'll let us know." Leaving Jess for the moment, he filled the kettle again, and put it back on the stove. "I'm worried about a bruise on his back, but I've seen worse. And _that_ guy lived to tell the tale." 

Rory raised her eyebrows. "Oh," she said in a small voice. "Well, thank you for taking care of him." Blinking, she looked at the floor. "I guess, when he wakes up, I don't have to say anything." 

"Anything about what?" 

"_You_ know." She yawned, gesturing with her hand. "You had rope. You made me wear a blindfold." 

"Good." 

She rubbed her eyes. "Jess would want to beat you to a pulp." 

"I appreciate your concern for my welfare," James Still grinned. Except for one snaggletooth in the corner of his smile, his teeth were white and even. "But I could knock this boy over with a feather."   
  


'_Certainly he had never succeeded in making Rufus believe that he loved him. Perhaps Rufus had looked into his eyes and seen the dark men Eric saw, and hated him for it._

_ He lay very still, feeling Yves's unmoving, trusting weight, feeling the sun._

_ "Yves-?"_

_ "Oui, mon chou?"_

_ "Let's go inside. I think maybe, I'd like to take a shower and have a drink. I'm beginning to feel sticky."_

_"Ah, les Americans avec leur drinks! I will surely become an alcoholic in New York." But he raised his head and kissed Eric swiftly on the tip of his nose and stood up._

_ He stood between Eric and the sun; his hair very bright, his face in shadow-_' 

"Bluebird?" 

"Mmm?" Rory sighed, lifting her head. Mister Still stood in front the fire, and his face was in shadow. 

She twisted to see Jess. He was in the four-poster bed, with the quilt pulled up to his chin. Still had carried him there, with Rory crowding his elbow. She had been anxious that the towel might slip.   
  
Jess seemed all right. His chest rose and fell at regular intervals, and the soft exhalations made a quiet background music. Mister Still had propped Jess up with pillows, and for the longest time, while the fire burned low in the grate, and the light leaking through the basement window made furtive exploration of the nooks and dark corners, Rory had leaned over him, dribbling small amounts of the Oral Rehydration Formula into his mouth with a spoon. She used a towel to wipe his chin. She kept at it until her eyes blurred, and her back shot through with pain. Just when she felt she had failed, and couldn't go on, Still quietly materialized at her side. He had held a steaming mug in front of her nose. 

Rory blinked slowly, then had reached for the cup, and gotten stiffly to her feet. Still slid into the place at Jess's side, and she had taken up _Another Country_, and curled into the chair by the fire. 

"I have to go out," Still said now. 

"Okay," she said to James Still, and bent over her book. "Bye." 

"What are you going to do while I'm gone?" he asked, and Rory looked up again, frowning. Surely the answer to that question was self-evident. 

"Read." 

Still made a soft noise. Rory didn't know him well enough to guess what he was thinking. "Why didn't you finish your drink? Finish it now." 

"I can't," she told him. "I can't drink any more of that stuff."   
  
He made another noise, shifting from one foot to the other. "I had hoped you would drink it, and go to sleep." 

"Oh, I'm not going to sleep." She thought she might have skipped over sleep, landing instead in this queasy, twilight state. In any event, being uneasy with Still, she felt she had to stay awake and guard Jess. "I'm not even sleepy." 

"Now, you're just making yourself sick," Still said with a sigh. "You need to _sleep_." 

"Okay," she said. "Sure. As soon as Jess is okay."   
  
"I have to go out. That means you'll be here alone." 

Rory shrugged. "So?" Longingly, she gazed at her book. _Certainly he had never succeeded in making Rufus believe that he loved him_. She frowned; she had read that part already. In her present state it was hard enough to concentrate on the tiny black type. She wished Still would stop bothering her. A lot of _Another Country_ took place in France, and it was very nice to be somewhere far away.   
  
"If you decided to leave this place, to run, to search out the police-" Mister Still let out a long breath. "You have to understand, you're a very sick girl-" 

"I am _not_ sick," Rory interrupted, although she was terribly worried that she was. It was the expression 'sick girl' she objected to; there was something about it that she found disturbing. 

Talking over her, Still continued, "-and you don't strike me as being particularly _smart_. If you go back into the woods, you _will_ get lost. And if you get lost in the woods, I doubt I'll be able to find you again. Someone else will find you. And that would be bad." 

"That _would_ be bad," she agreed. "But I want to read." 

"You can see I have a problem, here. You could do anything." 

"I just want to _read_," she said honestly. It had been a long time since she'd held a book in her hands. She would have read anything, from a S_weet Valley High_ novel, to a _Toys 'R Us_ catalogue. She would have reread _Troilus and Cressida_, her least favorite Shakespearean play. She would have happily devoured a cookbook--for vegans. Didn't he understand her hunger? A man who lived in a basement cave, with nothing but books for company, should understand that she had to read. _Certainly he had never succeeded in making Rufus believe that he loved him_. The words were like oxygen, they made her heart easy. Everything would be okay, if only he would let her _read_. She made a face. "I won't run away." 

She had been kidding, but she sensed a change. Mister Still got tense. She saw for the first time that he had something in his hand. _Run away_, she thought. _Shouldn't have said that_- 

Her skirt swirled as she spilled over the arm of the chair. She scuttled away. When she'd put a safe distance between them, she got to her feet, keeping the chair in the middle. "What are you going to do?" Her chest was heaving. Rope. With dread, she saw that all this time, he'd had the rope in his hands. 

"The problem I have," he said heavily, "is that I can't lock the door so you can't open it from the inside. I'm sorry. I don't want to do this-" 

"Then _don't_!" 

"I don't know what you're going to do. You aren't thinking clearly. You're feverish." 

"I'm not!" 

"You might take it into your head-" 

Rory jumped. She had backed into the wall between the sink and the wood stove, scaring herself. "I won't!" 

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "You can sit at the foot of the bed. Up against the bedpost. I'll make sure you're comfortable. And you'll be able to see him the whole time." 

"You're not sorry! You're a pervert!" Palms flat to the wall, she edged toward the sink. Only blind luck had prevented her from backing into the stove in the first place. "I can't allow it! I simply won't allow it!" 

"_Fine_!" Still lunged, and Rory shrieked. He caught a fistful of her gown, and dragged her out from the wall. Shoving her in front, he propelled her across the room, past the bed where Jess lay silent. "You can wait for me in here!" He opened the little door under the stairs. "You'll be cold, but you made your choice!" 

That was too much. Rory became furious. "_I didn't make any choices_!" she screamed. "I just didn't do _anything_, and everything _happened_! I am _not_ going all by myself in the dark! I'm staying here--not tied up! I'm staying here with _Jess_!" She jerked away, and slammed the door herself. She stood with her back to it, and jabbed a finger at him that was, in her own mind at least, a sharp and dangerous claw. "You are _not_ locking me in a closet! You are just going to have to _wonder_ if I'll do what I say I will!" She broke off, wheezing. Her hand was shaking.   
  
"So _there_," she finished. It was anticlimactic. 

"All right, all right," Mister Still conceded, holding up his hands. "I wasn't going to _hurt_ you. Nobody is going to hurt you. You don't have to worry about that, here." He turned abruptly, and headed back toward the sink. Opening a cupboard, he began to rummage. His voice jittered back to her, and if Rory hadn't known better, she might have thought he was nervous. "I think I have a Hershey bar in here somewhere. You'll calm down if I give you a Hershey bar, won't you? You'll sit by the fire and be quiet, and read your book?" He looked over his shoulder, not at Rory, but some point over her head. "You'll calm down, and we'll all be quiet. A Hershey bar is _just_ the ticket. All girls love candy . . ." 

There was a soft sound from the bed. Jess's eyes were open, glittering in the light from the fire. Rory rushed to his side. "Get up, get dressed," she said quickly. 

Still appeared, Hershey bar in hand. "How do you feel?" he asked Jess, and handed the chocolate bar to Rory. 

Jess blinked, his forehead creasing.   
  
"Oh, _hurry_," Rory moaned. "We have to get out of here!" 

Still motioned for Rory to be quiet. "I've cleaned you up, but you need fluid." 

"Jess?" A vein throbbed in Rory's temple. She lost her grip on the Hershey bar, and it sketched a pretty spiral as it tumbled to the floor. "That–that's not good," she remarked. Dizzily, she groped for the edge of the bed "Jess? We have to get out of here, _now_." 

"Oh, you're not leaving," Still said irritably. 

"Jess, I don't like him. He's mean." Rory shook her head, trying to clear the droning sound from her ears. Leaning in, she put her hand alongside her mouth and whispered confidentially, "Plus, I think he might be a murderer." 

"I've been wanting to ask you," Still said to Jess. "Did you bust this girl out of a mental ward?" 

Jess swallowed, and cleared his throat.   
  
"Please," Rory begged, noticing that the tremor in her hands was spreading up her arms. "Can we please _leave_?" 

"Rory," Jess croaked. "What are you _wearing_?" 

Rory put a hand to her head. "What's happening? Is something wrong?" She turned slowly, blinking at twin images of Mister Still. "We have to . . . get going-" 

"Talk to her," Mister Still said, from far away. 

"What the fuck?" Wincing, Jess sat up. He leaned back on his hands, staring blankly at Mister Still. 

"Talk to her." Mister Still said softly. 

"No," Rory said numbly. She stumbled back a step. "You tricked me. I drank . . . you said it was cough syrup-" 

"_Talk_ to her." 

Jess nodded. "Rory?" He twitched back the covers, revealing a pale hip, a flash of thigh. "Hey . . . come here." 

"No," she mumbled. "We–your clothes, and I–what-?!" Still had picked her up. He set her on the bed. 

"I know." Jess sighed, and drew her down. 

"But I, and you–we-" she stuttered, putting her hand on his chest. "How–how are we to know-?" 

Jess brushed her hair away from her face. "I know, baby," he whispered, and kissed her forehead.   
  


Rory was coughing before she woke up. Opening her eyes, she found she was flat on her back, and couldn't breathe. She tried to sit, but her head swam. Unhappily, she knew what was going to happen next. She pulled herself to the side of the mattress and vomited on the floor. She threw up again and again, until her stomach cleaved to her backbone. She came to a rest with her head hanging over the edge of the bed. "Mom?" she called weakly. "Mommy? I think I'm sick . . ."   
  
Her mother didn't come. Nobody came. With a shiver of sad pain like an icicle stab, she remembered where she was. She sat on the edge of the bed, feet dangling, with her nightgown falling in folds around her legs. She was wan and halfway somewhere else, with the bridge that connected the two places missing a board or two, and perhaps the safety rail. Every movement hurt. Her back was tight, and her legs shook. Little lights flashed in the corner of her eyes, and she had the most terrible taste in her mouth. 

There was a noise. Blearily, she lifted her head. The door swung back into the room, as if nudged by a foot. Her eyes focused, and she saw Jess. He was thin and colorless, wearing clothes she hadn't seen before. Mister Still had an arm around his shoulders, supporting him. Still was saying, "You have to expect a little blood when you take a hit to the kidneys. It'll pass." 

Jess responded in a low voice, and as if he felt her eyes, looked up. 

By way of greeting, Rory announced, "I threw up." She sniffed, rubbing her eyes, and noticed her wrists had been slathered with a greasy cream. She dabbed at it, frowning. 

"Hey." Jess threw her a weak smile. 

Still had an expression on his face that Rory couldn't read. It left her cold. Was he mad? She had made _such_ a mess. "I–I didn't mean to do it," she said hastily. "I'll clean it up. Just give me a mop and bucket." She wrapped her arms around herself, and made another discovery. She peeked down the neck of her nightgown. "Why have I been mummified?" 

"Stay where you are," Still called. "I'm sure you've never mopped a day in your life." 

Mister Still helped Jess to a chair. Jess put his elbow on the table, resting his head in his hand like he had a headache. "I'll take care of the mess," he said, without a great deal of conviction. Sourly, he added, "I _am_ the hired help."   
  
"I knew it," Still laughed. 

"Uh, excuse me?" Rory pulled out the neck of her nightgown, pointing. "What are these bandages?" 

"It's a remedy," Still informed her. "For your cough." 

"Mustard plaster," Jess mumbled. "Some crackpot thing. He said it would help. It seems to have helped. I don't know." He sighed tiredly. 

Perched on the edge of the bed and weaving slightly, Rory asked, "Are you better now?" 

Jess didn't lift his head, so his voice was muffled. "Sure." 

"You collapsed. I saw you collapse." 

"Rory," he said. "I'm _okay_." 

"Are you _sure_?" Nervously, she wound her fingers together. He had seemed so sick. He had been _unconscious_. "How–how can you possibly be better?" 

Even from across the room, Rory saw him hesitate; it was the slow blink, the way his upper lip tightened. "Don't worry about me," he said. "Right now, the thing we have to worry about-" 

She cut him off. "If you're really sure you're better, we should leave." 

"Leave? Rory, we can't leave. Don't you understand-?" 

"Mister Still has been very kind-" 

"Mister Still?" 

"But, I think we should get going." 

"You're not going anywhere," Still said to her. 

"Yep. Uh-huh." No one else seemed to be supporting this plan, so she was the only one nodding. "It's time to go." 

"Rory-" 

"Put your head back on your pillow," Still said. 

"Mister-" 

"Cameron," Jess interrupted. "Why the hell is my girlfriend calling you Mister?" 

"Oh, that," Still said awkwardly. 

"Please, Jess-" 

"Rory," Jess said, sounding tired. "Get back in bed." 

"But I want to _go_," she whined. "I really think we should be going." 

Jess sighed. "I promise I'm not playing fast and loose with your health." 

"Oh," she said, with another frown. She hadn't thought that. 

"I've decided it's better to wait here than try to hike out to the car." Jess slumped back in his chair. "The Hartzkes are all over the woods, looking for you." 

"Oh," she breathed.   
  
"I'm too weak to carry you, anyway. We couldn't go to a hospital nearby-" 

"Hospital?" she interrupted. 

"We'd have to find someplace far away. The whole time, you'd just be getting sicker-" 

"Sicker?" 

"You're warm and dry, now. Cameron's going to take care of you." 

"But who is Cameron?" Rory asked. 

Still raised a hand. "That would be me. Pleased to meet you." 

"Likewise," Rory said faintly, as a gray haze drifted across her eyes. 

"Rory-" Jess began, but she cut him off. 

"He–he told me his name was James Still." 

"Oh, Rory," Jess said. "I think he was pulling your leg." 

"What's going on?" she said, her voice rising. 

Jess's jaw tightened, and he began to look anxious. "You're a little confused, okay? Don't make it a bigger deal than it is." 

"Tell me what's going on!" 

Jess and Still exchanged a glance. "You've been out of it," Jess said reluctantly. "You've been really out of it." 

Rory looked from Jess to Mister Still, troubled by the fact that they seemed so chummy. When had Jess decided James Still could be trusted? Was she supposed to believe that all along James Still had been secretly one of the good guys? She supposed it wasn't _impossible_. Sometimes, it was hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys. They were equally grumpy, and even the bad guys were prone to bizarre and random acts of kindness. But, she was really worried. Jess wasn't infallible; time and time again he had screwed up. Was he making a mistake now? "Buddy Hartzke made me a sandwich," she mumbled.   
  
"Buddy Hartzke?" Jess looked at her sharply. 

"Why–why did he do that?" she asked, already regretting bringing up Buddy Hartzke. 

"Rory? What-?" He scratched under his chin. Rory could tell he wanted a shave; he seemed to get itchy when he didn't shave. "She's not normally like this," Jess told Still. 

"It does get tiresome fairly quickly," Still commented. 

"She's had a really hard time," Jess explained. 

"Stop talking about me," Rory said angrily. "Why are you _talking_ about me?" 

"Baby, calm down." The chair scraped the floor as Jess got to his feet.   
  
"Do you two know each other?" 

"We don't know each other," Jess said quickly. 

At the same moment, Still spoke up, sounding as if he intended to be helpful. "Why, little bird, I've met your young man many times." 

"_What_?" she gasped, putting a hand to her throat. 

"Aw, shit," Jess moaned. 

"What?" said Still. "What did I say?" 

"She does this thing where she freaks," Jess told him. "I never know what's going to set her off." 

Rory pointed at James Still. "He was going to leave us in the woods. He threatened to kill us. I–I . . . do you know what I offered to do for you? My money-" She put her face in her hands. "And he _knew_ you. He knew you all along-" 

"Which money?" His voice dangerous, Jess felt in his pocket. He held out a wad of bills. "This money?" 

She looked up, startled. "You _stole_ it from me?" 

His face got tight. "Please tell me you didn't have this the whole time." 

"_What_?" 

"I asked if you had any money, and you said no!" 

Rory gasped. The fact that he was accusing her of holding out on him--so that he'd have to put himself in danger to support her--robbed her of coherent speech. 

"If we'd used your money from the beginning-" 

Still interrupted, catching his arm. "This isn't helping. You're scaring her." 

"You were a big help with that," Jess snapped, tucking the bills in his back pocket. 

"How was I to know you're selective about what you tell your lady love?" 

Jess took a step toward her, but stopped when she quailed. "Christ. I don't know what to do with you, Rory." 

"You need to quiet her," Still said. "Because she's getting on my nerves. And she's working herself into a state." 

"All right, all right." Jess ran a nervous hand over his head. He turned to Rory. "None of this matters, right now." 

Rory moaned, and started to shake. Very firmly Jess said, "You're getting confused again. I can see it--it's happening. Rory, I'm right here. Rory, look at me. _I'm right here_." He touched the scratches on his cheek, visibly debating whether or not to approach. "It's only because you're frightened." His shoulders sagged. "And I guess I'm the one who scared you. Listen--no, _listen_. Were you scared when I was unconscious? You were all alone. I bet you were really scared. I'm better now. _And I'm right here_. You don't have to be afraid." He put a protective hand to his ribs, and took another step toward her. More gently, he added, "But . . . do you understand that _you're_ sick?" 

Rory didn't like the way the men were throwing around the word '_sick_.' It had an ominous ring, like they were using it as a euphemism for '_raped_.' Every time they said she was '_a very sick girl_,' to her ears, it sounded like they were saying '_a very raped girl_.' She made an unhappy noise, shaking her head. They were so terribly wrong, and she couldn't find a way to contradict them. Jess continued, "You need some serious sleep, Rory. Cameron thinks, and I agree-" He glanced at Mister Still, who nodded. "Rory, listen to me. I really believe if you sleep, things will start to make sense again. You're very sick. You have to-" 

"You're the one who's _sick_," Rory gasped, leaning heavily on the terrible word. How dare he point the finger at her? She knew what had happened to him, back at that hell house. "You-!" She broke off, unable to say the ugly words. How could she humiliate Jess in front of a stranger? Another man? Rory didn't know what to do. She wanted to dash out the door and _leave_. They were men, and sticking together--it was like they were ganging up on her. "Both of you," she cried impotently. "You're both sick!" She threw herself back on the bed, sobbing with childish abandon. 

"Now she's just hysterical," Still observed. 

Jess said, "Rory, please-" and his voice cracked. 

"If you don't control this situation," Still said tersely, "I will." 

Jess started to say something, and stopped. He tried, "Nobody is going to hurt you here, Rory. We want to take care of you." 

"Leave me _alone_," she moaned, and pulled the pillow over her head. Even over the sound of her own sobs, Rory heard Jess groan. 

"Woman sure is a curious critter," Still drawled. "And there ain't no doubting that."   
  


She dreamt she was a prisoner in a cold cell. Under a tattered gown, her ankles were wretchedly thin, and bound with shackles. The Hartzke brothers were her guards, and one by one they came to her, wanting unspeakable things. She rolled over in bed, blinking in the darkness, and gradually came to the conclusion she was now awake. The curtain had been drawn, closing her off from the rest of the room. On the other side, there was the faint flicker of light, and the furtive rumble of male voices. She strained to understand. 

". . . they fucking hogtied her with _twine_. She fought . . . she fought-" Jess's voice broke. 

"Easy," Still said. "You have to put it out of your head." 

"Her _hands_," Jess said, sounding strangled. "It was so tight her hands were blue." 

"Okay." Still's voice was soft. "It's over now." 

"No! Do you know what I saw? The first fucking thing I saw when I went into that room? My girlfriend's naked ass!" 

"Oh!" Rory covered her mouth with her hand. 

"I had to pull up her panties! And she's _choking_, and crying about her fucking _skirt_, and her ass is up in the air and she doesn't even _know_ it. Jesus--just a second. Rory?" 

Rory screwed her eyes shut. She felt the shadow fall across her face. Heard him breathe. 

"Rory? Are you sleeping?" He touched her cheek, wiped away the tear. "Shit."   
  


Jess sat beside her on the bed and rubbed her back. She cried until she fell into an odd dream where he was her husband, and they lived in the Palais de Versailles. She wandered the Galerie des Glaces in a filmy blue negligee, shivering at the draft. "Are we captured?" she practiced saying. She had to ask him when she found him. "I can't stand it if we're captured." 

She heard his voice, and followed it out: " . . . he came downstairs, and cut me down. I couldn't stand. I mean, I wasn't even down there that long-" 

Rory turned on her side. She frowned, looking for a cool pillow spot. Her cheeks, stiff with dried tears, felt like they were cracking. 

"What did they hit you with?" 

"Which time?" 

"When he hit you in the head, it was glass. I cleaned glass out of that wound." 

"I don't remember . . . but that was before the basement. Maybe . . . there are figurine-type things everywhere. I don't know." 

"Tchockes," Rory mumbled into her pillow. 

"After that?" 

"I can't . . . Jeez. I don't remember that, either. It was dark. I couldn't see because of the blood, and I was in and out . . . " 

Rory pulled the quilt over her shoulder. "That place was lousy with tchockes," she murmured, drowsing. The men were faint shadows on the other side of the curtain, and continued their dialogue without noting her contribution. 

"You're lucky." 

"_Lucky_?" 

"I think it was chain. Did they hang you up with chain?" 

"Chain? No--that time, they tied me with rope. But she said something . . . fuck. Forget it. I can't think about that, or I'll puke. So, Len Hartzke dragged me upstairs. He dumped me in the front hallway. At that point, my hands were tied like _this_ in front of me, because they had been over my head. I could see _her_ in the kitchen. Just sitting at the table. I called out to her, but she wouldn't look at me." 

"Maybe she was frightened." 

"I don't know what was going on. She won't say." 

"She probably doesn't have words." 

"She knows lots of words. I wish . . . shit. I _know_ she was frightened. I wish she would have looked at me. If only I could have seen her face. After that . . . he took me out to the shed. How long has it been since this was a working cranberry farm? Did your parents throw in the towel, or couldn't they-" 

"I heard the little girl singing." 

"What do you mean? When?" 

"Through the air vent in the basement. Nearly stopped my heart. I didn't know what it was, and then it was gone. I tried to tell myself I was imagining things . . ." 

"Jesus. What was she singing?" 

"She sounded terrified. I thought . . . I thought she was eight years old. Or a ghost. An eight-year-old ghost, maybe." 

"What was she _singing_?" 

"I didn't recognize the song."   
  


Sometimes, Jess slept in the bed beside her. His sleep was as troubled as her own. He thrashed. He cried out. Once, he struck her with his elbow, frightening her badly. After it happened, she sat for a long time on the edge of the bed, trembling, with her nightgown sliding off her shoulder. 

Other times, Jess read by the light of the lantern, settling back against the pillows with his knees bent. He thumbed through _Soul on Ice_, but set it aside in favor of _Thomas Sankara Speaks: The Burkina Faso Revolution_. He seemed to enjoy _Knock on Any Door_(later, Rory would skim the book and discover that it was a story about an Italian kid growing up on the streets of Chicago) but when Jess picked up and almost immediately discarded _Juneteenth_, complaining that the narrative was impenetrable, Rory wondered if he was having trouble concentrating. He read following along with his finger, and she had never seen him do that before. She would have asked him, but she was too tired, and the light gave her a headache. She turned on her side, pulling the quilt around her face. 

Jess tried to get her to eat. He offered her soda crackers, saying they would settle her stomach. He brought her a mug of beef broth, the instant kind, and said it wasn't fatty--she should be able to digest it without getting sick. Coughing, Rory asked for Doritos Cool Ranch chips, and pink lemonade. Jess smiled, and said there was none. She drank the soup. 

"You'll have a formidable scar," Still commented, leaning over the bed to change the dressing on Jess's wound. He suggested that Rory take more of his homemade cough syrup. Unused to the nervous chatter of young girls, he preferred it when she was asleep. Jess said she'd had enough; the "cough syrup" was making her loopy. "Rory." He drew a finger down her cheek to get her attention. "Rory? Do you even drink? Are you allowed to?" 

"What are you talking about?" she replied sleepily. "I drink all the time. A person would _die_ if they didn't drink." 

At that, Jess laughed. "Jesus, she's wasted." 

"Are _you_ drinking?" She coughed into her hand, squinting at him. "I think there was a special drink." 

To Jess, Still said, "What do you think cough syrup _is_?" 

"Yes." Rory nodded thoughtfully. "We made it specially for you. One pound sugar, one pound salt. Baking soda, uh-" She remembered the herbs and flowers. "Rosemary?" 

"Maybe the last time you were out in the world," Jess said to Still. "These days, they make cough syrup with no booze." 

"For remembering," Rory mumbled. "And pansies. That's for thought." 

"You're paraphrasing," Jess told her, smoothing back her hair. 

Still said, "When children cough, they tire themselves out, and can't get well. They cough until they loose control and throw up. It's better just to knock her out. She'll sleep it off, eventually." 

"Christ, I hope so," Jess said. 

~ * ~

  
Rory was stiff from sleeping on the hardwood floor, and got up on her knees with a yawn. Without warning, her stomach tightened, and she remembered the fracas from the night before. She tilted her head to the side, listening. Not a peep from the living room. Was it too much to hope everybody had calmed down, and gone home? Fleetingly, she wondered why her mother hadn't come in at some point to put her to bed properly. Then she noticed the slant of the yellow light streaming in her bedroom window. 

She jumped up, grabbing the clock from her bedside table. She gaped at the display. "God," she moaned. "My God, oh my God!" The clock read nine-fifteen. She was late for school. More than late. Really late. And on the day after she had created such a ruckus! 

She scurried to her desk, looking for her book bag. "Mom!" she cried. He bag wasn't on her desk. She looked underneath. "Mom? How could you let me sleep so late?" Her bag wasn't on the floor, either. "Where is it? Where?" She stood up straight, still looking. She couldn't remember when she'd had it last. 

"You have to retrace your steps," she murmured, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. "Where did you leave it?" She considered her reflection, frowning. She touched the mirror glass, her hand matching exactly to its perfect twin. 

"Dammit!" Hurriedly, she began to unbutton her sweater. "Stupid Chilton," she grumbled, "and all its stupid Chilton rules." She had just remembered that today was the day she had to go to school naked. It was her punishment for being the cause of a disturbance. Headmaster Charleston had stared down his nose, and in his stuffiest voice informed her that people who were trying to get into the Ivy League didn't appreciate cheap, trashy kerfuffles interrupting their studies. 

Rory tossed her sweater on the bed, and kicked off her shoes. She unbuttoned her shirt and shrugged out of it, draping it over her bedpost. She was a lucky young lady, the Headmaster had added. He was cutting her all kinds of slack. Parents had heard about the incident; they'd been calling, non-stop. Rory unhooked her skirt, and let it drop to on the floor. She stepped out of the circle of blue and white plaid, and sat on the foot of her bed, squirming out of her tights and panties. She slipped off her bra, and tossed it at the dresser. 

"I went to bat for you," the Headmaster had confided. "Some of them wanted you tossed out on your keister. This way, everybody is happy, and we all get a look at your boobies." 

Rory opened her door, and leaned around it, calling, "Mom?" 

She tiptoed into the kitchen, covering her nakedness as best she could with her hands. She was starting to get worried. She didn't know how she was going to get through the day, naked as a bluebird, and she still had no idea as to the whereabouts of her book bag. "Mom?" she called again, her bare feet making little pats as she crossed the kitchen floor. She was concerned about her mom, too. There was no note on the table. 

Entering the living room, she stopped short. The fireplace was throwing an orange-red glow. There was an army cot in front of the fire. A man was snoring, tucked up in a hunter green sleeping bag. Nervously, Rory edged past him, and made for the door. Just as she put her hand on the doorknob, the man rolled over with a snort. He called out, "Vincent Vega! Come and get your baby girl. She's wandering." 

In a panic, Rory threw open the door, but she was caught. She looked down, not understanding what she was seeing. She knew she had taken off her uniform--she'd _had_ to--but now she was wearing . . . her debutante gown? Someone had a hand wound in her skirt, and he pulled her back inside. A sinewy arm snaked around her, shutting the door. "Rory," Jess said in a thick voice. "What are you doing? Come back to bed." 

"Jess?" It was hard to talk. "You–you-" She touched him, frowning. "Why–why are you naked?" Something inside her relaxed, and the words came easier. "Are you being punished, too?" She ran a light hand over his stomach, across the big bandage. 

"Hey," he gasped, and grabbed her wrist. 

"You shouldn't be here. You'll get in trouble. Dean-" 

"Fuck. I should have known. You're dreaming about _Dean_." Jess yawned into his hand. "The guy who couldn't have been more territorial if he'd tied you to a tree and peed around you in a circle." 

"People are trying to _sleep_," Mister Still said irritably. 

"She _is_ asleep." Jess caught her by the upper arms, holding her back. Over his shoulder, he said, "I think she's sleepwalking." 

"I have to get out of here," Rory said urgently. 

"Herd her back to bed," Mister Still said, from across the room. "No need to wake her." 

"Please," Rory begged. "Would you drive me? I don't want anyone to see me like this." 

"Drive you where, Rory?" 

"You can't talk to her," Mister Still yawned. "She won't make sense." 

"I'm late," Rory told Jess. "Paris said there was a test." 

Jess made a sad sound, and picked up her hand. "Were you talking to Paris again, baby?" He folded his fingers around hers. "There's no test today." He kissed her forehead. "Yeah," he sighed. "You have a fever." 

"Please, help me," she whispered. "Why–why won't you help me?" 

"Jesus, this is creepy." Jess rubbed his eyes. "You're not going to school today, Rory. You're sick. You have to stay in bed." 

"Don't try to reason with her," Mister Still said. "She can't understand. Take her back to bed." 

"Come on." Jess tugged on her hand. 

"Jess . . . where's my mom?" 

He raised an eyebrow. "Your mom?" 

"Do you know where my mom is?" 

"Your mom," he whispered. 

"I was calling and calling-" 

"You want your mom," he stated. 

"I have to . . . to . . . go-" 

"Maybe she has to _go_," Mister Still suggested. He got up on his elbow. "Do you want me to take her?" 

Once more, Jess looked over his shoulder. "No. Of course not." 

"She'll get back in bed after that." 

"All right." Jess pulled Rory's nightgown back up over her shoulder, and put a hand on either side of her face. "Hold it a second more, okay? Let me put something on. And I'm gonna look for your shoes." 

"I–I don't think I'm supposed to wear shoes," Rory explained. 

"Blindfold." Mister Still turned on his side. 

Jess rolled his eyes. "She's _asleep_." 

"If she wakes," Mister Still said. 

"Pull up your nightgown . . . like that. Get it out of the way. That's a good girl. Oh, your panties . . . hang on. Okay, backup, backup, whoops . . . sit. You can sit down, now." 

Rory dropped with a plop. There was a cold draft on her bottom, and she snapped all the way awake. She was in a small closet of weather-beaten planks. Jess was a lean shadow in the doorway; she couldn't see his face. Behind him, the light was the color of cherry blossoms, and she could make out faintly waving grasses. Off in the distance, there was some sort of structure, a ramshackle building. 

He turned away. "I'll wait for you out here, okay? There's not enough room." 

The thing she was sitting on was cutting into the backs of her thighs. She squirmed in discomfort, kicking Jess in the calf. "Watch it," he admonished, and stepped outside. 

"Jess?" 

He turned back. Frowning, he took a closer look. "Are you awake?" 

"What the heck?" 

"Go to the bathroom. I'm waiting for you." 

"No." She looked around, her nose wrinkling in disgust. "Is this an _outhouse_?" 

"Go to the bathroom, Rory. You have to go." 

Jess stepped out, and Rory arranged her gown to cover her lap. "Wait! Jess?" 

He stayed just outside, with his hand wedged in the door. "Yeah?" 

"Is–is there toilet paper?" 

She wanted some air, and yawning, Jess said, "Why not?" so they stood on wet ground, with Rory holding her gown up out of the mud. 

"Why do I have to wear a blindfold?" she complained. "You're not." 

Jess slid an arm around her waist. "I know," he sighed. "It's stupid. But I promised." 

"What is it I'm not supposed to see?" 

"Trust me. There's nothing." 

She turned to him. "What does he think I'm going to do?" 

"That's just it," he said. "He doesn't know. He doesn't know what to make of you. Look, Cameron is not a bad guy. And shit--is he ever going out on a limb for us. If the Hartzkes found out he was sheltering us . . ." His voice trailed off. 

"What would they do to him?" she asked solemnly. 

"Rory, he's their _neighbor_." 

"Oh." Her forehead creased. "What's his deal? Do you know?" 

"He's just . . . he's somebody who's opted out. The world, society--he's not participating. When he found you . . . I think he's just afraid that you're going to run home to mommy and daddy and tell them he-" 

"But I wouldn't," she objected. It was true. She had no reason to cause trouble. He had saved Jess. Why would she mess up the guy's life? _Men are so stupid_, she thought snippily. _Does Mister Still really think I couldn't find him again? He lives in the Pine Barrens, somewhere near the Hartzke Brothers. And even before Jess told me that, I probably already knew enough to track him down. Surely there are records of this place, somewhere_. Her heart gave an odd double beat, and she felt an inexplicable pain deep in her stomach. _But I have no interest in . . . investigating. I'm not a reporter anymore_. 

Jess coughed, clearing his throat. "Rory, he's a guy who's had a lifetime of white women crossing to the other side of the street when he came up behind them. And he's not stupid. He knows you come from money." 

"For Pete's sake," she groaned. 

"Everyone can see it," he insisted. "The way you talk, the way you hold yourself. Your hands-" 

"My _hands_?" 

He laughed. "Your elegant little hands. They look like, I don't know--you should be cutting flowers, or something." 

"You think about my hands?" 

"So Cameron looks at a girl like you, and he's cautious. I know it's all a little . . ." He made a sound. "God, I don't know _what_ it is--but he's not going to hurt you. He's nursed us both. Yeah, I'm running on fumes, but I'm not at death's door-" 

"Don't." She shivered, and fumbling for him, slid her arms around his waist. "I was so scared for you, I was numb." She sniffed against his chest. 

He hugged her back, and for a moment, tight in his arms, she felt safe. Jess surprised her with a kiss--she couldn't see what he was doing--but her lips opened easily under his. He touched her softly with his tongue, murmuring, "We got lost." 

"I know," she whispered, rising up on her toes. She wanted him to keep kissing her, so she put two fingers under his chin, and kissed him again. 

"We crossed Cameron's property, and circled back onto the Hartzkes's land. If Cameron hadn't stopped us, we would have been knocking on their damn door." 

"But what was he doing?" she wondered. "How did he come to be there?" 

Jess stiffened, and broke off the kiss. Rory sighed in disappointment, thinking that maybe, for a moment, he'd forgotten himself, but he really wasn't going to kiss her anymore--he was too afraid of going to jail. 

"Rory, he went there to rescue you." 

"_What_?" 

"He knew you were locked up in the basement." Jess shuddered; Rory felt it under the palm she had placed on his bare chest. "He heard you in there. He thought you were a little girl. He was just sick about it." He sighed heavily. "Cameron does stuff, okay?" 

"Stuff?" 

"For money. But every man has his limit. That was his. He was going to get you out of there." 

"What?" She wanted to take off the blindfold, and look at him. Jess caught her hand, preventing her, so blindly she raised her chin and said, "I don't understand. How did he _hear _me?" 

"You know," Jess changed the subject. "He told me you couldn't see it, but he never said I couldn't _tell_ you what it looks like . . ." 

"Jess, wait. How did he know-?" 

"This used to be a cranberry farm. The farmhouse burned down a long time ago. Cameron salvaged what he could, and now he lives in the cellar." 

"Cranberry farm?" 

"Yeah. It belonged to his parents. There's still a bog. I went out to look at it while you were asleep." 

"What?" she said, hurt. "You've been taking field trips?" 

"Stealthy field trips," he said. "Staying under the radar. I can't get soft." 

"You're hardly _soft_." 

"There are some out-buildings still standing. There's a barn. You're familiar with the outhouse . . ." Rory heard the smirk in his voice. 

"Of course," she said dryly. 

"We're sort of on a hill here. It's early, so it's misty right now. Can you feel it? In the distance are all the trees. The grass is so green, and all the pine needles that have fallen are kind of orange, so the colors are really cool. There's a stone wall running along-" 

"I know," she whispered. 

"Did you know there's an Indian legend about why cranberries are red? Cameron told me. To commemorate some terrible battle, the Great Spirit bathed the coat of the cranberry in blood-" 

"Jess!" she cried. "_Ew_." 

He laughed, hugging her. "Sorry, sorry." 

"I should think so." She put her head on his chest, listening to the happy sound of his heartbeat. She hadn't really been disgusted. Guys would be gross, and girls would say '_Ew_;' that was one of the ways girls got their guys to hug them apologetically in the early morning mist. As far as Rory was concerned, that was the way the world was _supposed_ to work. 

Jess sighed. "It's not so bad, here. It's all overgrown. Kind of . . . otherworldly. Quiet." 

"No phone. No electricity." 

"I know. But for a while it wouldn't be bad." He seemed far away, contemplative. 

"Jess?" 

"He asked me to stay." 

Her stomach lurched. "_What_?" 

"He said I could stay. If I wanted." 

"Why?" Her heart sped up. "Oh, dear. Does he have a thing for you? Is–is he in _love_ with you?" 

"In love with me." Jess sounded amused. "In _love_." 

"In _lust_ with you, then." She said, hitting him somewhere on his chest. She knew he was making fun of her. "Well, _is_ he?" 

"That's not the vibe I'm getting." 

"Did he come on to you?" 

"Nope." 

"He has every James Baldwin. _Giovanni's Room_, the whole nine yards. I saw some Langston Hughes, too. Maybe he's gay. Maybe that's why he's so interested." 

"He also has _Cotton Comes to Harlem_, and _The Messenger_," Jess laughed. "He's extremely well read." 

"I think he's gay," Rory decreed. "He sure doesn't like girls." 

"Thanks a lot. Can't somebody just want to be my friend--without wanting something from me? I mean, I know there's not a lot of precedence-" 

"Me," she said softly. "I want to be your friend." 

He kissed the side of her head. "Rory, he's _lonely_." 

"But . . . what if he _does_ come on to you?" 

"Relax. I'd deal with it. Not every guy uses his dick to-" He stopped abruptly. "Jeez, I didn't mean to say that. I-" 

"I don't care," she whispered. 

He gave her another hug. "That's not what I'm getting from him. I think he just wants the _company_." 

"But, would you? Would you stay?" The idea of it was making her terribly anxious. Still had made it clear there was no room in his crazy basement hideaway for her. 

"We should get you back to bed." 

Jess put his hand on the small of her back, but she resisted. "Jess, c'mon. Would you stay?" 

"I don't think I could," he said slowly. "I'd be like Anne Frank, here. Hiding out, with the Hartzkes a few miles away." 

"If they weren't there?" 

"Oh," he said. "I don't know." 

"But what about me?" she asked timidly. 

"You?" He bent and kissed her fiercely. "You're going _home_." 

"Oh, Jess--no!" 

"You're so pale." He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. "I can see every freckle." 

"_Jess_-!" 

He took her by the upper arm. "I don't know how it could be scarier to go home, than it is to stay with me. I don't get that, Rory." She tried to shrug away, but Jess had a good grip and wouldn't let go. "Get used to the idea that you're going home." 

Dragging her heels, she said, "I–I _can't_. I could _never_ face them." 

"Sweet Rory," he sighed. "When are you going to admit to yourself that you _want_ to go home?" 

"So, it was true?" she asked tearfully. She took an uncertain step, but he kept her from falling. 

"You're getting dizzy." 

"I'm not! I just tripped!" 

He began to steer her forward. "This was too much, too soon." 

She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. "Everything you said? All that stuff? You meant it?" 

"I meant every word." 

"Home." Her voice was bleak.   
  


Jess and Mister Still were planning something. Wrapped in a quilt, Rory lay with her head at the foot of the bed, observing through slitted eyes. After the short moment of clarity, she had grown feverish again, and the action as it unfolded in front of her had the unreal quality of an avant guard theatrical production. Mister Still drew the character of reluctance in broad strokes, while Jess was adamance. At one point Jess said sharply, "What's it gonna take to make this happen?" 

"This is stupid," Still replied. "It's _foolhardy_." 

"Foolhardy," Rory mumbled, her hands folded under her chin. She thought it was a great word; people rarely found ways to work it into the conversation. 

"I don't have a choice," Jess insisted. 

"You're too weak." 

"She . . . I have–I've got-" Both men stopped, and looked at Rory. 

"Hi," she said. 

Still raised an eyebrow, and crossed the room. "Go to sleep, you silly girl. This is a matter for men and it doesn't concern you." He pulled the curtain, shutting her out. 

"What did I do?" she called, but nobody answered. 

In the main room the conversation continued, whispered, furious. Rory lost track of who was speaking. 

"What you need to do is cut your losses." 

"You're not _listening_ to me. I don't have a _choice_." 

"You don't even know what you're looking for." 

"I _do_ know what I'm looking for." 

"You just said you don't know if they exist." 

"They exist. I can't believe they don't exist. I _know_ them. I know what they're _like_. It's the way they get their kicks." 

"But it's a big house. You wouldn't know where to look." 

"Keep them away for an hour." 

"I shouldn't have said-" 

"One hour. Keep them away for one hour. That's all I'm asking." 

"And it's a lot." 

"_I know that_. I get it, okay? I don't have any right to ask. Look--I can toss that place and they'll never know." 

"You're a regular second-story man, I suppose." 

"No. But they're _idiots_. They're . . . arrogant. They don't even lock the goddamn door." 

"You pass out. Or they catch you. Or you pass out, and _then_ they catch you. Answer me this--what happens to the little girl?" 

"I have to try." 

"_What happens to the little girl_?" 

"What happens to her is, as soon as she's well enough, you carry her out, and drop her off at the nearest cop shop." 

"Sure. I'll pin a note to her nightie. I'll write: 'Please look after this girl.'" 

"Come on." 

"Then I ring the bell and run like hell, right?" 

"It's the _backup_ plan. The plan we're not going to need because nothing's gonna go wrong. I'll be back for her." 

"And your luck has been so good lately-" 

"What were you going to do with the kid?" 

"What?" 

"You thought there was a little kid. You went there to get her. You were all set to be the big hero. What were you going to do with _her_?" 

"I had a blanket--I was going to carry her out-" 

"And take her to the nearest police station." 

"Yes. That was what I was prepared to do. I was prepared to do what had to be done." 

"All I'm asking for is an _hour_." 

"You're asking for a lot more than that. You're asking me to spin a story for the Hartzkes. You're asking me to march them willy-nilly into the trees because I supposedly saw a pale, sickly girl out there somewhere-" 

"Yeah. But somewhere far away from the house." 

"Stupid. It's a really bad plan." 

"This can't wait, okay? I'm assuming they're not carrying them around while they make their idiot forays to hunt us in the Barrens--but the longer they have them, it increases the likelihood that they're going to _do_ something with them. Shit. They could sell them to a magazine. Just for _spite_, I can see them doing that. Or, they could put them on the _internet_. I can't let that happen. She–maybe she can still get past this. Have a _life_. She can't have this shit hanging over her head. Not on top of everything else. I have to do this. For _her_. I've got to–please. _Please_. Can't you just understand?" 

"There is no mathematical equation in existence that would measure the sheer, unadulterated badness of this plan." 

"I'm asking again. What's it gonna take to make this happen?"   
  


Rory was cold and lonely. Noiselessly, she climbed down from the bed, and held aside the curtain. The men were by the fire, talking in low voices. She saw that Jess was in the armchair, sipping the Oral Rehydration formula, and making a face. He said, "So, I'll bring the navy-" 

"Indigo," Still corrected. 

"_Indigo_. I said I'll get it, and I _will_." Jess set his glass on the side table. "Can I get the key to the basement?" 

"Oh, I'm not giving you my key. If they catch you, you're not having my keys on you. You can get down there the same way your girl got out. The window." 

"The window." Jess shook his head in rueful admiration. "You have to admit--I mean, you wouldn't think to look at her, but-" 

"Then you can get into the main house at the back." 

"But how do I _carry_ the damn thing?" 

"You'll stuff her in a pillowcase. She'll be fine." 

_ Stuff who in a pillowcase_? Rory swayed slightly as she eavesdropped, and once again, her nightgown slid off her shoulder. She was sort of tipsy. Earlier, Jess had stepped out for a call of nature, and Mister Still had made good use of the moment to strongly suggest she partake of his cough syrup. When Jess had returned, she had been too groggy to rat Still out. 

"Pillowcase," Jess repeated. "Jeez." 

Rory needed an entry into the conversation; she couldn't appear unannounced. She came up with: "I was born on the side of a hill." 

Jess looked up. "Rory." 

"Can I sit with you?" 

Jess glanced at James Still, and started to stand, "Sure. You can have my chair." 

"No, I want to sit _with_ you." She crawled into his lap, tucking the long skirt around her legs. "Is this okay?" 

"Yeah," he whispered, sliding an arm around her back. 

Still got to his feet. "I guess we'll finish this later." 

"She's not going to remember," Jess assured him, as Rory played with a button on his shirt. "Look at her. In a minute, she'll be asleep again." 

Perhaps unconsciously, he ran a possessive hand along her thigh. Rory found it soothing. She crossed her ankles and curled into him with a sleepy murmur. "Jess?" 

"Yeah?" 

She yawned. "That money." 

His hand closed around her ankle. "I don't want to talk about it," he said stiffly. 

"Don't get mad," she persisted. "You're making a mistake." 

"Rory-" 

"But I _didn't_ have it. I acquired it." 

"Acquired it how?" 

"I stole it." She rubbed her eyes and added, "I think I was mad." She thought, but didn't say: _I was mad at you_. 

"Uh-oh," Still commented. 

"I saw it, and I took it. That wasn't wrong . . . was it?" 

Jess sighed. "It's just one more thing they'll hate me for." 

She looked up at him. "But _I_ was the one-" 

"Rory, the Hartzkes aren't big with the feminism. I'm the guy. Anything you do, it's because I allowed it to happen. That's how things shake out for them." 

"They would expect you to control your woman," Still agreed. 

"How?" she demanded. "With a bull whip?" 

"If need be." Still glared at her. She glared back. 

"Baby," Jess soothed. "Don't pick a fight with Cameron." 

"At that point, I think I was _their_ woman," she snapped. "They're the ones who couldn't control me. So, you can just relax. It's their own darn fault they got robbed." 

"Don't talk like that," Jess said. "You were never theirs." 

"I'd like my money back, please." 

"You're not getting it back," Jess said. "So, drop it." 

Still leaned forward in his chair. "He's trying to make things right for you," he informed Rory. "You're so spoiled, you don't even-" 

"_Spoiled_?" 

"The two of you, ease off," Jess sighed. He nuzzled Rory's ear. "You were going back to sleep." 

"I'm_ tired_ of sleeping," she protested, but she settled into him, closing her eyes. She heard Still get up, and there was the sound of another log landing on the fire. Even with her face turned to Jess, she was aware of the new light, and could feel the heat at her back. 

There was a scrape; Still had pulled his chair closer to the fire. "I know a man," he started. "He came from my hometown." 

Scratching around the bandage on his forehead, Jess made a noise. "Knock it off." 

"He wore his passion for his woman like a thorny crown." 

"Let me guess," Jess said with a sigh. "Her name was Dolores." 

"What are you going to do with that girl?" It was an earnest question, and Rory was afraid to breathe as it settled over them all like a fine dusting of soot. 

"I can't keep her," Jess said quietly. 

"You can so," she mumbled into his shirtfront. 

"We talked about this. You have to go home." He peeled the bandage away, and put it on the side table. 

"No," she said plaintively. "I want to stay with-" The next time she awoke, it was to soft laughter. Fuzzily, Rory saw that Still had a newspaper spread out in front of him, and was cleaning dried mud off Jess's sneakers with a butter knife. She made a sleepy sound of confusion, not sure what was happening. 

"No, it was when the ladies were painting the kitchen," Still said, scraping the knife along the side of the shoe. Mud peeled away like a chocolate curlicue. "Remember how hot it was? You came down, half-naked, with that god-awful girl on your arm-" 

"Girl?" Rory said thickly. 

Jess started, his grip tightening. He had been holding her like a baby, with an arm under her knees, and the other around her back. "Rory, I thought you were out." 

"_The_ girl?" she asked, her voice tremulous. 

"No, no," Jess said hastily. "A _different_ girl." 

"A different girl," she said flatly. "Are you talking about a girl you–you _slept_ with?" She knew that there had been other girls--she had seen him with Shane, who had so obviously been that kind of girl--but, half-awake and unsettled, she was feeling delicate. Rory's lip trembled. There had been girls he'd touched in a way he wouldn't touch her. It was hard to take. 

"Antoinette DeCesare," Jess said quietly. "I was friends with her brother, Mario. He got sent up to Crossroads." 

"Oh, God," Rory said numbly, as she was hammered by the heaviness of information falling into place like slabs of granite. "In that house. You took a girl to that terrible house--and you had sex?" 

"Yes." 

In a concussed haze, Rory remembered how she'd come upon the bedroom pictured in the photo that had scared her so badly, and been tormented by nightmarish visions of Jess in league with the Hartzke brothers. "But–but you said you were only there _once_." 

"I know." Jess looked away. 

Perhaps he wanted to be helpful; Still tried to turn the conversation away from the topic of sex. "You told your cousin those salamanders were the ugliest thing you'd ever seen. She was some mad." 

"Your . . . cousin," Rory repeated, and Jess tensed. 

"It's not what you think." 

"Your cousin," Rory said again. "I think I'm going to be sick." 

"Wait until I get you a basin," Still said hastily, and disappeared toward the sink. 

"Rory-" 

More information surfaced, snippets of overheard conversations. "Does he mean that Jenny person?" A vein pulsed in the corner of her eye, and she put her hand to her head. "Jenny . . . Hartzke. It's Jenny _Hartzke_, isn't it? Len's _wife_? Jenny Hartzke is your cousin?!" 

There was the rise and fall of his chest under her before he answered. "My mother has a cousin. Jim. His name is Jim. Jenny is his stepdaughter. Saying we're cousins is stretching it. We're not even really related." 

"But how-?" 

"We were in the same school for almost a year. I didn't know her. We didn't grow up together. I don't know anybody from my family, not really. She–we used to talk, sometimes. By the smoking door." 

"Smoking door?" 

"Everybody used to smoke out behind where they had shop class." 

"I see," she said dully. 

"One day, we just realized. That we were sort of related. It's no big deal, Rory." 

"It's so many lies," she said, with a catch in her voice. The light from the fire wasn't very strong, but it was hurting her eyes. Looking down at her lap, she mumbled, "The Hartzke brothers are your cousins by _marriage_." Her heart was beating so quickly she thought it might fly out of her chest. "They–they wanted to-" She lowered her voice. "They wanted to rape me. They tried so many times." 

Jess made a sharp sound. "Who?" 

Her head was loose on her neck, and she was having a hard time holding it up. "Oh, I don't _remember_. I just remember that they _tried_. I made them stop. I told them to stop. I said they had to _stop_." She sniffed, drawing a hand across her eyes. "They wanted to _kill_ you. They hurt you so badly, and they wanted to kill you. How can they want to kill you if you're their _cousin_?" She coughed, moaning, "You said you didn't know her! Oh, Jess, why must you tell me such terrible lies?" 

"When you asked, I didn't-" He tipped up his head, resting it against the back of the chair. "It wasn't a lie," he said carefully. He sighed. "Okay, it was a lie, but only because I didn't want to upset you. Jesus, you were tied up-" 

"Shut up!" she snapped. 

"There was no time to go into all that. You were so scared. They had hurt you- " 

"Stop it, _stop it_!" she cried, putting her hands over her face. 

"Rory," he said miserably. "Did it ever occur to you that I was ashamed? I was the one who exposed you to those people. I was the one who put you in a position where they could-" 

"She's not even married to him anymore! She left him!" 

"What?" 

"They're _separated_," she cried. "Buddy said Jenny was breaking Len's heart. That it was making him be foolish over me." 

"Separated," Jess breathed. "Oh, thank God." 

Still drifted up to them, clearly reluctant to intrude. "And why is Mister Still cleaning your sneakers?" Rory demanded, sobbing. "Clean your own shoes, you big shmuck!" 

"Cameron," Jess corrected mildly. "It's _Cameron_." 

Still held out the basin. It was blue with white flecks. "Is she going to vomit?" 

"No." Jess slid a cool hand to the back of her neck, and pulled her close to his chest. 

Still made a frustrated noise. "Can't you get her to shut off the waterworks?" 

"No," Jess said, as Rory's shoulders shook. "As long as she's with me, there are going to be tears." 

Her head fell back. Thus startled, she awoke. With alarm, she discovered she was in James Still's arms. "Put me _down_." 

"I'm putting you to bed." 

"I don't want _you_ to carry me," she pouted. "I only want Jess." 

"Forgiven him, have you?" Snorting, he dumped her, and she fell on the bed with a squawk. "He _can't_ carry you. Stop being such a princess." He pulled up the covers, and under the guise of tucking her in tightly, added in a low voice, "If you don't go to sleep of your own volition, I am going to cold-cock you. Then we can all have some peace and quiet." 

"Too tight!" Rory squirmed. She lifted her head. "And that's not very nice." 

Sounding exasperated, Still said, "This is absolutely the last time I have a young lady to visit."   
  


There were voices, an exclamation. Rory sat up with a start, her knees soft lumps under the covers. Jess and Still were far on the other side of the room, arguing. She saw that Jess had changed into dark clothing. She stared at them, nonplused. As she watched, Still threw up his hands, raising his voice. "She's already tried to leave. What do you think is going to happen if she wakes and finds you gone? She'll wander off, and all you've done for her will come to _nothing_." 

"But what you're suggesting is grotesque," Jess objected. He lowered his voice, but Rory caught the words "restrain," and "bed." 

Over Jess's head, Still saw that she was awake. He crossed the room, and stared down at her. "Say you were to find your young man absent-" 

"Absent?" she repeated, and her mouth got dry. 

"What would you do?" 

"Absent where? What's going on?" 

"If you awoke, and he was gone, would you be frightened?" 

"Gone?" Anxiously, she leaned to the side so she could see Jess. "He can't go. No, no. Not without me." 

"Don't look at him, look at _me_. Tell me what you would do." 

"I–I would have to go look for him," she said slowly. "He doesn't feel well. He should stay in bed with me." 

Still snorted in disgust. He turned to Jess. "You see? She can't be trusted." 

Rory blinked. "Was that the wrong answer? I was asleep! I didn't know what you wanted me to say!" 

Jess approached. "Rory, I have to go out for a little while. You need to wait for me here." 

"Out? Don't go out!" 

"Will you stay in bed and wait for me?" 

She threw back the covers. "Wait . . . I'll come with you." 

"I told you," Still said. "She can't be counted on to be sensible. With her fever-" 

"I don't have a fever!" Rory snapped. 

Jess blocked Still. "You're upsetting her!" 

"God forbid _I_ should upset her," Still complained, but he backed off. "It's your commando raid, but I shouldn't upset the fair flower." Angrily, he strode toward the sink. 

"Commando raid?" Rory repeated stupidly. "What's going on? Jess?" 

"Rory," Jess sighed. "I'm doing this for _you_. You have to trust me, okay?" 

"It's _not_ okay. I didn't ask you to do anything-" She broke off gasping. James Still had returned, with his terrible coil of rope. "_No_," she breathed. "Jess? Jess, please don't let him!" 

Jess covered his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry. We just don't have time to debate whether the door opens in or out, or if we can gimmick it shut somehow. I think–I think he may be right. This might be the only way to make sure you stay safe." In her dismay, Rory froze, and didn't resist when Still made the familiar loop around her waist. 

"Make sure there's enough slack for her to lie down." Still turned away, playing out the double cord. 

"It's okay," Jess said, taking up the rope. "She's got plenty on this end." 

Utterly betrayed, she found her voice. "You said you wouldn't do this. You promised you would _never_ do this." 

"Rory," Jess said softly. "I'm going to have a hard enough time as it is. I can't be worrying you won't be here when I get back." 

Still got up on the table, and took down the lantern. Arms over his head, he threaded the rope through the hook, and tied it off. "Come here," he called to Jess. He held down his hand, and Jess jumped up on the table. "Can _you_ reach that?" 

Jess put a hand to his ribs. With his other hand, he made a swipe at the hook. "Nope." 

"And she's smaller than you are." Still snapped his fingers. "I know--we'll move the table. There will be no way she can get at that." 

"But the knot-?" Jess asked. 

"She won't be able to work it," Still assured him. "Her hands can't be very strong. There's a lark's head, with six inches of tight braid after that. She'd need a free end--which she doesn't have, because both strands end up here." He pointed to the ceiling hook. 

"Please," Rory begged, wiping her eyes, "I can't stand this, it makes me sick-" Jess looked at her and looked away, his jaw tight. He was pale. She could plainly see that he was unhappy; in fact, he seemed a little sick himself. 

The men clambered down from the table. Still seemed to be going over a checklist in his head. "She can't reach the knives. She can't reach the door-" 

"Oh," Rory whimpered. "Why are you being so mean to me?" 

Jess helped Still shove back the table, while Still commented, "I'll stoke the fire. I don't want her messing with any of the lanterns-" 

"Please, Jess. Don't do this!" 

The fire flared, brightening the room, and without looking at Rory, Jess said, "I don't know if I can leave her like this. Not while she's so upset." 

Still turned with the fireplace poker in his hand. The warm firelight brought a rose glow to his brown skin. "Your plan is a bad plan. It's dangerous, and foolish. I've told you that. If you want to forget it-" 

"I can't," Jess insisted. 

"Jess," Rory said hollowly. "Jess, please." 

"Rory-" Jess had a catch in his voice. "I'm coming back for you. I won't leave you like this." 

"Jess-" 

Still shouldered his pack. "Say your goodbyes. We do this now, or we don't go at all." 

"Wait," Jess caught his arm. "Paper. I need two sheets of paper." 

"You don't need much do you?" With a sigh, Still let his pack slide to the floor. He found Jess the paper. "You need a pen, too?" 

"Yeah." Leaning over the table, Jess scrawled something. 

"Last will and testament?" Still inquired. 

"Something like that," Jess murmured. He folded the first page, and after a moment of consideration, stowed it in the cupboard over the sink. He looked up at Still, his face serious. "That's her name and address. If anything happens to me-" 

"All right," Still agreed. 

"I'm trusting you." 

"And you can," Still said simply. 

"The Hartzkes can _never_ see that-" 

"I know," Still said. "She'd never have any peace." 

Jess went to Rory and sat beside her on the bed. He put his arm around her back. "Don't cry," he whispered into her hair. "Don't cry." 

"Please, don't go." She expelled a shuddering breath. "I want you to stay." 

"Time's wasting," Still called, from the doorway. 

"One more minute," Jess answered. "Rory, remember when you told me about your shirt?" 

"My shirt?" she sniffled. 

"Did they-" He swallowed. "Did someone take it off you? One of the Hartzkes?" 

"My shirt," she repeated dully. 

"Did you see where they put it?" 

"I told you," she said. "Don't you remember? I hid it." 

He sighed. "I know you said that, but I thought–I thought maybe you were just remembering it that way because what really happened was too terrible-" 

"I hid it," she insisted. "It's my circumstantial evidence." She lowered her voice. "I didn't want them to be able to say I was never there." 

"I need to know where it is," he said firmly. "This is important, okay?" 

"Is that what you're doing?" She was aghast. "God, Jess. You can't go back there! Please!" 

"Don't-" he started. 

"If they catch you, they'll kill you!" 

"They're not going to catch me," he assured her. "We have a plan." 

"A bad plan," Still commented. 

Jess lifted his head. "Not now. Not in front of her." 

Rory looked away, blinking furiously. "I can't believe you're doing this." 

"I'm trying to make a blank slate for you, Rory. I'm trying to make it like none of this ever happened." 

"But I don't want you to!" 

"Tell me where you put your shirt. That's the last thing. If I can find that, too-" 

"Too?" Her heart fluttered. In the back of her memory, there were impressions, black as crow feathers, and they shifted, whispering. "In–in addition to _what_?" 

"-there won't be any obvious traces of you in that house." He paused. "And then you'll be free. Don't you see, baby? You'll really be free." 

"I don't think I want to tell you." She plucked at the rope. It was unbearable. It was unbearable to be tied. With a hitch in her voice, she said, "Why should I tell you anything?" 

"I'm trying to help you, Rory." 

"Jess, you just let him tie me up." 

"To _protect _you." 

It was unpleasantly similar to something Buddy Hartzke had said. She swallowed, lowering her chin. "To keep me _prisoner_." 

"No." He gave her a soft squeeze. "You might get confused and run away." 

Her face was hot when she lifted her head. "I knew what I was doing when I hid my shirt." 

"I'm getting it. Tell me where it is." 

"No. I'm not going to tell you." 

"Rory-" 

"No," she refused. 

Jess rubbed his forehead. In the firelight, his face was half shadowed, appearing lined and tired. "I'll have to find it myself." He looked up at James Still. "I might need more time at the house." 

Still glared at him. "Not possible." 

"Fine," Jess sighed. "I'll be quick." 

"Be quick, _now_," Still snapped. "You're sick, you're weak, and your plan is asinine. Furthermore, it's going to rain. I'm this close to pulling the plug." 

"Jess," Rory tried again. "Don't do this. I didn't ask you to do this." 

Encircling her with his arms, he whispered, "The next time you wake up, I'll be back. If I'm _not _here, it's only because I'm a little bit late." He gave her another squeeze, and there was an accompanying rustle from the paper he held in his hand. "If you get scared, or confused . . . if you can't remember where I am, or what's going on, I want you to read this." He handed her the paper. "Hold it in your hand." 

"I'm afraid _now_," she whispered. 

He kissed her temple. She climbed down from the bed, and followed him until the rope tightened on her waist, and she couldn't follow anymore. "Read it as many times as you have to," he told her. "And know that it's true." He pulled the door shut, leaving her alone. 

Rory unfolded the paper. She angled it so that she could see the words in the light from the fire. _I'm coming back_, she read. Below that, there was more in his familiar scrawl: 

_I love you_, 

_Jess_   
  


At first, the light from the window was pink, then the faraway sky darkened to gray-violet, and Rory heard the rain. Clutching Jess's note in her hand, she circled the room, visiting everything she could reach, and straining to expand her territory. This is what she could do. She could stretch out in bed, and even turn over, but she couldn't reach the nightstand, or the lantern Jess had used to read. Since the staircase was past the bed, she couldn't even brush the spines of the books with the tips of her fingers. She was very angry about that. In a sea of riches, the only book she had access to was _Another Country_, because someone had set it out for her near the fire. 

She could sit in the armchair, uncomfortably; the rope was taut and cut into her waist. After a while, she realized nothing was preventing her from moving the armchair so that she'd have more slack in the rope. She pulled the chair back--unfortunately, this was_ away_ from the warm fire--and crawled into it, swinging her legs over one arm, and resting her head on the other. When she had accomplished that, she found she didn't care to sit in the chair; there was nothing to do there but stare at the fire, or read _Another Country_. 

She sat for a while anyhow, restlessly kicking her feet. She picked at the knot in the rope, finding, as she had expected, that James Still had been right--she couldn't get it undone. Squirming in the chair, she tried to wiggle the rope down, but it wouldn't pass her hips. She tried to get to go up, but that didn't work either. 

Sighing in irritation, she scooped her book off the floor. She read: _But she did not step out of his arms at once. She looked at him and she said, "I'm sorry I was so silly. I know you didn't mean it."_

_ "I'm sorry, too. I'm just a jealous, no-good bastard, I can't help it, I'm crazy about you."_

_ And he kissed her again._

There was a crack from the fire, and a shower of sparks; now the sky outside the basement window was the blue-black of a stormy night. She flipped to another page, and read only one sentence: _"This is one hell of a party," he said._

"I'll say," Rory agreed. She ripped the page out of James Still's book, balled it up, and tossed it into the fire. She ripped out another page, and threw that into the fire, too. She watched the flames dance. "I just want you to know that tying me up was a mean trick, and I hate you both." Her voice echoed in the empty room.   
  


In her dream, Jess was _dead_, and it was a dream of tragic despair that turned quickly to terror when she found herself led by shadowy figures to a roaring funeral pyre. Len Hartzke threw back his hood, snarling, "You want to be with him? _Be_ with him." He caught her under the arms, and Buddy Hartzke came forward to take up her feet. She struggled, but the flames got closer and closer. She screamed . . . 

She bolted to her feet, shivering. The fire had burned down to quiet blue-orange flames, and she couldn't reach the woodpile. She rubbed her arms, and began to walk in as wide a circle as the rope allowed. She tried to reach the cutting board. She wanted a knife in the worst way. She leaned toward the door, almost to the point of overbalancing, but Still had measured well, and she came up short. She thought of the scalpel, and other tools, in the drawer under the table, but the table was at a new, odd angle, and out of her reach. She remembered the note. 

Rushing to the chair, she found the crumpled paper wedged between the arm and the cushion. She held it up; in the gloom, she could hardly read the writing. "Jess," she whispered. "I'm so worried about you. Come back."   
  


"There are no pictures." Thin in her ghost white nightgown, Rory traveled a lopsided circle, arguing with herself. The words left her mouth in small comic book bubbles, floating upward, only to be pressed down hard by the creeping shadows. "He thinks he's so smart! I'm sure I would know if there were _pictures_." She was very tired, but too anxious to settle down. The wind outside had picked up, and there were noises. 

Sadly, she fingered the rope. She was tied up like a disobedient puppy–if no one came to free her, she might very well starve. "Just because Buddy Hartzke took off one stocking, that doesn't mean he–what?" She lifted her head. A dark whisper in the background . . . something about her underwear? She frowned, and shook it off. "It was to give me a _Band-Aid_. To–to help me," she said uncertainly. "He wanted to help me. Like the way he gave me a _sandwich_. In the basement . . . where I was unconscious-" She shuddered at the memory of waking up bare-chested in the Hartzkes' basement. 

"There are no pictures, Jess." She stumbled toward the fire, trying to read his note one last time in the dying light.   
  


She had a brilliant idea: She would break a leg off Mister Still's straight back chair, stick it in the fire, and make a torch. She would use that to burn the rope, freeing herself. Then she would get the hell out of Dodge, and it would serve Jess right, leaving her all alone and tied up and waiting. How dare he? She was so mad! She crawled out of the armchair, feeling stiff and top heavy, and pulled over the other chair. She turned the chair on its side, and raising her foot, stomped on one of the legs. 

The chair didn't break, but for a moment, she thought she'd broken her _foot_, and she hopped on one leg, yipping. She tripped over the rope, landing in a heap. "I hate you! I hate you!" she cried. "Ow!" She lay on the floor with her legs drawn up, shivering and massaging her foot. Sitting up, she felt along the floor until she located her book. She ripped out several pages, crumpled them up, and threw them into the fireplace. The fire flared briefly, but it was a transient glow, so, sitting up with her toes pointed at the hearth, she fed the fire more pages, one by one. She found a paper on the floor by her knee, and threw that in as well. "Oh, no!" She lunged, coming up short. She had thrown in Jess's note. Eyes brimming, she watched it burn. "Jess?" she said nervously. "I think I might be in trouble."   
  


Rory awoke in a cold sweat. She threw back the covers. Her gown was sticking to her all over. She slid to the edge of the bed, and everything spun. The next thing she knew, she was curled in a ball on the floor, with no memory of how she'd gotten there. She put her hand down on something springy. Thinking, _Snake!_ she pulled away with a gasp. 

Reaching out tentatively, she found that it was rope. She picked up the rope, and ran it through her hands. Alarmed when she found that _she_ was the thing fastened to the end of it, she muttered, "What the-?" She couldn't _believe_ she was tied up again. It was infuriating. 

Except for a faint, blue glow coming from the corner, the room was dark, and she huddled on the floor, making a sound of frustration when she was unsuccessful with the knot. _Where am I_? she wondered. _And why am I wearing a droopy, Wendy nightgown_? She slid the gown back up over her shoulder, and lifted her head. "Jess?" she hissed, and her own voice was distant in her ears. There was a flash, like lightening: Jess running full out through the trees, dodging branches. He was bleeding. She blinked. "Jess? Are–are you _here_?" She saw him again, and it took her breath away. He was splashing through a creek, grabbing handfuls of reeds to pull himself up the other bank. 

With a terrible sense of urgency, she gave up on the knot, deciding instead to follow the rope. If she could find out what she was fastened to, she might be able to untie it from the other end. She crawled along the floor. Scrabbling with her fingers, she traced the rope as it disappeared up. Her head was buzzing as she got to her feet. She lost the rope, found it again, lost it, and found it, but she couldn't locate the end. She got up on her toes, and still she couldn't find it. There was another flash, and she froze. Jess was in a clearing. All three brothers were there, closing in on him. His chest was heaving, and he looked terrified. There was no place left for him to run. 

"Let him go," she moaned. "I'll do anything, if only you'll let him go." She sank to her knees, covering her face with her hands. 

There was a thud behind her and she stiffened, moaning. She knew it was all over. Jess had been captured. She was staked out like a sacrificial goat. She drew in a breath. She could at least be dignified. "I won't fight," she told them, without turning around. "I won't kick you or scratch you. You can do anything you want. Just–please. You don't need him. Let him go." With bottomless sadness, she knew suddenly that she had nothing to bargain with. They could take whatever they wanted. One of them touched her, and she flinched. "I didn't mean to do that!" she cried. "I wasn't ready! I'll be good, I promise!" 

He drew her to her feet, and began to walk her. With terror, she realized he was taking her to bed. She pulled away sharply, and vomited all over herself. "Uh, shit," she gasped. "I didn't mean to do that, either." The floor tilted under her feet, and her head got very hot and full. Remarkably, she was accomplishing what she hadn't been able to do the last time she had confronted such magnificent horror--she was sending herself away. Her knees gave, and her eyes rolled back. After that, she sank like a stone.   
  


Rory swam back up in her head, and found she was sitting up in bed. Jess was there. He spoke to her softly, wiping her down with a washcloth. Surprised, she pulled away. 

He asked, "Too cold? I got tired of waiting for the stupid stove." 

Rory glanced at her lap. Hurriedly, she covered herself with her arms. She was wearing her panties, and the rope was still tied around her waist. That was it. Under the veil of her hair, she looked up at him, frowning, and made a firm decision to get on top of things. She would start with what she had on. "Uh–there was a nightgown?" 

"You were pretty confused there," he said in a low voice. He picked up a length of the rope that was coiled on the bed between them. "I know this made you mad, but-" 

"Please untie me," she said quickly, because she could see that the rope still ran along the floor, across the room, and up to the ceiling hook. "I told you it would make me sick." 

He tried his hand at the knot. She didn't know whether to be frustrated or mollified when he couldn't figure it out, either. "Jeez," he said irritably. "The knots these people know." He gave up with a snort. "Anyhow, I don't think _this_ is what made you sick." 

Rory blinked; she was still trying to piece together the linear narrative. "When did you-? I thought-" She tilted her head to the side, considering. There was the fact of him, present and accounted for. That it was brighter, and warm in the basement room. That strangely, her head was okay. Dreams had bled into her reality, and reality had bled into her dreams--the two states had been like naughty children. Rory thought that with a firm hand, she might be able to send them to separate corners. There was the fact that her stomach was roiling, but only slightly. It would pass. "I feel better," she decided. She felt an upsurge of irritation--she had been very angry with Jess--but she put it aside in favor of throwing her arms around his neck, which was what she really wanted to do. "You're back! You came back, and I feel better!" 

Skepticism skated across his face, but he ducked his head, grinning. "Yeah?" 

"Are you okay?" She touched his cheek. His face was dark with stubble. Brushing a damp curl out of his eyes, she thought, _Why . . . he needs a haircut_. 

"Perfect," he assured her. He picked up the basin, and wet the cloth. "I want to finish cleaning you up." He took her wrist in his hand, and held her arm out to the side. Rory sat quietly, and let him bathe her, turning her head to look at the fire. Eventually, the damp cloth gave her gooseflesh, and she pushed it away. 

"Where's my nightgown?" 

Strangely, he seemed embarrassed. "It's history. I stripped it off you, after-" 

"Oh, ugh. _That_." Rory flushed, putting a hand in front of her mouth. "I have a bad taste in my mouth." 

"Thought you might." He reached for something else on the floor, a bottle. In answer to Rory's raised eyebrow, he said, "It's homemade mouthwash stuff. I've been using it. It's _disgusting_." 

Rory helped herself. "Oh, that's foul," she gurgled, and spat in the basin. 

He laughed and set the basin on the floor. "Actually, you used it before--and you said exactly the same thing." He sobered. "Are you sure you feel better?" She nodded. "Good. Shove over." He crawled onto the bed. 

"The rope," she protested, as he pressed against her, spooning. "You're on the _rope_." 

"Yeah," he sighed. "I'll have to cut it." Sleepily, he nuzzled her hair. "Give me a sec. I'm so tired." He got up on his elbow to turn over the pillow, and mashed it into an acceptable shape. "Let's catch a few, okay? Then we'll move on." 

"Really? We can go?" 

He put his head down with a sigh. "If you're up for it." 

"I'm up for it." 

"Sleep now," he mumbled. 

When his hand traced her bare stomach, she shuddered. "You're cold." 

"I'm cold," he agreed. "Warm me up." 

"Jess," she whispered, after he had settled. 

"Yeah?" he asked, muffled. 

"Did you find any pictures?" 

He got very still. "No." 

In her head, Rory envisioned a device not unlike the applause meter on a TV talent show. One side said _Truth_, and the other said_ Lie_. There was a little arrow. The arrow quivered, undecided, and finally edged toward _Lie_. Carefully, she said, "If there were pictures of me, I would want to know." 

"You really are better," he observed. 

"Jess-?" 

"I guess you heard everything." 

"I guess," she agreed. "It filtered though the purple haze." 

"Purple?" He sounded interested. 

"Jess-?" 

He tickled her with a soft scratch of stubble. "Did you kiss the sky?" 

Rory sighed. "What was he giving me to drink?" 

"Yo-ho-ho," Jess snickered. 

"No," she gasped. 

He laughed. "He takes it everywhere. His _Special Tonic_. There's some healthy stuff in it. He thinks ginger is a cure-all." He brushed aside her hair, and kissed the nape of her neck. "And pansies. For thought." 

Shivering at his touch, Rory whispered, "Pardon?" 

"I need some shut-eye, kiddo." 

"Wait, Jess. Before you do that, I'd like to revisit topic number one." 

"Hendrix?" 

"Jess, c'mon." 

"I didn't find anything. Nothing at all." He drew a circle on her flat stomach with the tip of his finger. "Not--even--your--_shirt_," he added, each soft word accompanied by a tap on her belly. He exhaled a long breath, while Rory brushed a strand of her hair away from her mouth. "I picked up a freaking nine foot long snake--with my bare hands!--and stuffed it in a _pillowcase_, and that was the only thing I brought." 

"I told you," she whispered. "You shouldn't have risked it." 

He yawned. "Oh, and I ripped off their laptop." 

"What-? The one from the dinning room?" 

He indicated with his chin. "It's over on the table." He sighed, snuggling close. "By the way, if anybody asks, I've decided I hate snakes." 

"Wait--you took the laptop?" 

"Yeah. I decided I had to steal their computer. I forget why. I had a good reason at the time." He stroked her stomach. Rory drew a breath; she was starting to tingle. "The rain," he murmured. "Remember that Julia Roberts movie, where she was running away? She swam . . . she swam-" He yawned. "I had to walk backwards, wiping up my footprints . . ." 

"I hope the Hartzkes appreciate it, you washing their floors, and all." Behind her, Jess fell into drowsy silence, and Rory let him be. She drifted, Jess there and solid at her back. She was thinking about things, like how Buddy Hartzke had told her he wanted her to cook and clean and it was ironic that the person who'd done the cleaning was Jess, when his hand slid under the waistband of her panties. Her heart quickened. His hand traveled lower, and he was holding her. Rory didn't know what to do. She didn't want to startle him; she was afraid he would realize what he was doing, and stop. 

"Oh, Jeez." His breath riffled her hair. "Did I just feel you up?" 

"Please," she begged. "Nothing bad will happen to you, I promise. I won't let it." She opened her legs, just a little. 

He sighed and nipped her shoulder. "It's too hard to say no. Don't tempt me." 

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not _tempting_ you. God." Rory reached under her waistband, and fit her smaller hand on top of his. 

"I can't," he protested, but didn't move. 

"Oh, Jess. Too much has happened." She leaned back, wishing she could see his dark eyes. "Don't you think the time to worry was _before_ you came to my bedroom window?" 

In a soft breath, there was the barest murmur, "Yeah. You're right." 

Experimentally, she twitched against his hand. His free arm squeezed under, wrapping around her waist. Her legs were loose and churning slightly, but she began to have the strange and not entirely bad feeling of being caught--that she could wriggle and squirm, and he wouldn't let her go. 

"Wait," he whispered. "Roll over." She stretched out on her back, and he tugged her panties to mid-thigh. When he undid his belt, her eyes widened. 

"Now?" she breathed. "Really?" 

"Can you be on top?" He reached over and slid her undies past her knees. "Because I don't think I could hold myself up." 

"I don't know." She brought up her legs to tug her underwear off her ankles. "I'm not sure how that would work." Having no idea what one did with panties in such a situation, she held them bunched in her hand. Finally, she dropped them on the floor. 

"I'll help you," he smiled. "C'mere." 

There was some awkwardness as he tugged the rope out from under his ass, but after that she was sufficiently untangled for him to pull her over. "I can't believe this is it." She straddled his legs, bending for a kiss. "Show me. Show me what to do." 

Hesitant, he reached out. He ran his thumb along her lip. Gently, he touched her jaw. "I'm not sure it isn't wrong to do this with a girl who has bruises on her face." 

"You want to," she whispered. "I can feel it." She rocked forward gently, and he groaned. "What do you want? Do you want permission? I'm giving it to you." 

"I wish I could say something." He reached for her breasts, covering them with his hands. "I'd tell you you're beautiful, or that I love you, but you already know that." 

"I know when you see me, you_ think_ that I'm beautiful." Affectionately, she stroked his cheek. 

"I'm so-" Jess looked up at her. "We're alive, Rory. We-" 

She stopped him with a new kiss. "Dear Jess," she whispered. "Tell me pretty things." 

"You're beautiful. I love you." He raised an eyebrow. "Anything you'd like to tell me?" 

"You're bossy, and only moderately handsome." She grinned. "But I suppose I'm willing to overlook that." 

His hands tightened on her breasts. "You're a brat. Maybe I'm gonna hold out until you learn some manners." 

"I love you, I love you," she laughed. "How many times do I have to say it to make you believe?" 

"So many times," he said seriously. "I'm a little stupid that way." 

"I love you," she repeated. "And you look very nice to me in the moonlight. Very nice indeed." She kissed him, and this time, she was the one opening his mouth, it was her darting tongue, and he was the one who was caught and breathless. Led by some distant, feminine instinct, she slid a hand between their bodies. She wanted to hold him as intimately as he had held her. Jess found her hand, and guided it through his fly. 

There was a bang as the door flung open, hitting the wall. With a startled yelp, Rory rolled off Jess, as far away as the rope would allow. She got up on her knees. "_Cameron_!" She blushed furiously, covering herself with her hands. They hadn't pulled the curtain. Cameron was standing in the doorway, and from the expression on his face, he knew what they had been up to. 

Groaning, Jess slid to the edge of the bed. "Hey, Cameron," he managed. 

"Jesus wept." Cameron held his head. "In my bed. My own bed. Neither of you has the intelligence God gave a goose. No _wonder_ you're in such trouble." 

"My IQ is one thirty-eight," Jess gasped. "Rory, where's the washcloth?" 

"What?" Rory could only sit trembling. At that moment, she didn't have sense enough to cover herself with the quilt. 

"Never mind. I've got it." He was occupied for a second, then he slid in front of her, blocking Cameron's view. Buckling his belt, he asked, "What's the matter? Did something happen?" 

Over by the table, Cameron had gotten out a knife. He sliced through the far end of Rory's leash. "Oh, something happened," he grumbled. "They're not allowed to come here. It was specifically part of the deal." 

Now that Cameron had cut the rope, Rory had enough leeway to slide off the far side of the bed. Crouching by the nightstand, she stepped into her panties. Cameron began to coil up all the loose rope, while Jess pulled his sweater over his head. "Are you all right? Did they hurt you?" He tossed his sweater to Rory, who made a noteworthy one-handed catch. 

"Collect your little girl," Cameron said grimly. He handed all the rope to Jess; it was still attached to Rory. "No time to run." 

"_What_?!" Jess shouldered the coil. He gave it a tug, and Rory crawled across the bed to stand beside him. "Tell me what _happened_." 

Scooping up the squirming pillowcase, and--with a raised eyebrow--the laptop, Cameron handed them both to Jess. "Len Hartzke is right behind me. You'll have to hide."   
  


"Funny place for a table," Len Hartzke commented. 

"I'll put my table where I like," Cameron snapped. 

Crouching in the cramped closet under the stairs, with her eye pressed to the keyhole and Jess's nervous hand on her back, Rory saw Len Hartzke shrug. 

"Come away from there," Jess hissed. He had already set down the laptop, now, he shrugged off the rope coil, and set the snake pillowcase to the side. Rory shook her head, waving him off with a sharp motion of her hand. 

"I wanted to thank you," Len Hartzke said. "I appreciate you coming to me." 

It was Cameron's turn to shrug. "I thought she might be one of yours." He turned away, and after a moment, added casually, "Find her?" 

"Didn't catch a whiff of her." Len Hartzke smiled oddly. "And I sniffed, and sniffed." 

"I had things to do," Cameron said. "Or I would have stayed." 

"We did find something." Len Hartzke had come fully into the room. He unbuttoned his navy pea coat. "Could be nothing. Buddy's checking it out." 

"Good," Cameron said. "I'm glad it wasn't a total bust." 

"You know, I've never seen this place. Where you live. I've always wondered-" 

"I'm wondering what you're doing here, now," Cameron interrupted. "Because you know I like my privacy." 

"Oh, I know, I know," Len said hastily. "I don't want to put you out." 

Len wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Rory guessed he had been tramping the woods for some time, and indoors, he was too warm in his coat. He stared at the fireplace, his face blank. For a long moment, his gaze rested on the rumpled bed. He turned, eyes traveling over the staircase where Cameron housed his massive book collection. When he noticed the door under the stairs with an interested tilt of his head, Rory's stomach dropped. _He can't see me_, she thought, hoping it was true. _Too dark, it's too dark in here, and the light is at his back . . ._

"When I saw you," Len said slowly, his blond hair bright in the firelight. "When I was coming back on the trail-" 

Cameron raised an eyebrow. "Yes?" 

"You left us out there in the trees. You said you had to get back to your chores. But there you were, like you were waiting-" 

"I wasn't waiting for you," Cameron blustered. "I'm busy. I have projects-" 

"Oh," inquired Len. "Digging another bear trap?" 

"Pit trap," Cameron corrected. "And I don't see what business it is of yours what I do on my own property." 

Len raised his hands. "I don't want to get up in your business." 

"If I want to dig, I'll dig." 

"That's cool," Len said easily. "Listen, we depend on you, you know that? We're away so much, without you-" 

"That's fine," Cameron said. "But we agreed you wouldn't bother me at home." 

Len got something out of his pocket. "I wanted to give you this." He held out some bills, and after a brief hesitation, Cameron took them. "Now we're all caught up." 

Rory's eyes widened. Money? Len Hartzke was paying Cameron money. What for? She shot a worried look at Jess, and missed the next exchange between the older men. When she looked back, Len was again staring at the closet. Her heart thudded. What was going on? Was it a double-cross? Was Cameron selling them out? "We have to get out of here," she muttered, and that was when Jess grabbed her from behind. 

She jumped. He whispered in her ear: "Don't. Make. A. Sound." He locked an arm around her waist, forcing her up on her toes. Slowly, silently, he backed away from the door. Her bare feet between his sneakers, she tiptoed in step, past the trunk, past the washtub, past the folded cot, and the rope unwound from the coil and went with her. Jess slid down the back wall of the closet, settling on the floor. 

Rory turned in his lap. She saw a muscle jump at the corner of his jaw, and he shot her a look. She could tell he was afraid she would do something, scream, make a noise, and he was right--she _had_ to communicate what she'd just seen. She opened her mouth, and he kissed her. It was a rough, desperate kiss, his tongue hard in her mouth, and her eyes bulged. One of his arms scooted down her back, while his other hand slid between her thighs. He locked his hands together, squeezing her tight. Rory put a hand on his chest, squirming. With Jess holding her in that strange fashion, in the stuffy closet, it hit her. She was suddenly elsewhere. There was a sharp, internal dip, but she was _climbing_; she crested a dark plateau, chasing something she wanted badly enough that it made her willing to forget their peril. There was a sensation she could only equate with being buffeted by the wind, and she lost herself in it, shuddering. She buried her face in his chest, and bit his shirt, making a muffled sound. 

"Please," he whispered. "Shush." As quickly as it had come, it disappeared, leaving her limp in his arms. "Someone's coming-" Jess froze. The door opened out, and they blinked at the light. 

"He's gone," Cameron said. 

"What did he want?" Jess asked, while Rory hung her head. She couldn't look at either of them. Did Jess know what had just happened? She was mortified. 

"You," Cameron said tiredly. "Or, rather--the girl." 

Jess put his hands over Rory's ears. "Hey!" She grabbed his wrists, struggling. She heard him say something, and Cameron responded. Jess spoke again, before he let her go. 

"He's one stupid son of a-" Perhaps out of deference to the mixed company, Cameron caught himself before he swore. Instead, he scratched his chin, heaving a sigh. "The second he left, I saw her costume--the blue skirt--hanging by the fire." 

Jess, who only policed his language on special occasions(for example, when he remembered to do it), exclaimed, "Shit!" 

"And her little shoes are lined up under the bed." 

"Holy fuck." Jess cradled Rory's face to his chest, as if he wanted to shield her. "Are you sure he doesn't know? Maybe-" 

"He doesn't suspect," Cameron assured him. "He's sure I don't have her. I could see it in his eyes. If he thought she was here . . . he wants her so badly. Do you think he'd take the chance I'd smuggle her out?" Out of the corner of her eye, Rory saw him take off his glasses. He looked like he wanted to clean them, but was so agitated he didn't know what to do with himself. "Len Hartzke is not afraid of me. He would have taken her." He made a harsh sound. "He would have carried her away while she kicked and screamed." He shook his head, and set his glasses back on his nose. "No, he's satisfied. He thinks she's in the Barrens, lost and sick-" 

"What did he pay you for?" Rory said sharply. "I saw." 

"Rory," Jess groaned. 

Cameron ignored her. "Get up out of there, boy. Get some clothes on the girl-" 

"What was the money for?" 

"I'm so sorry," Jess said to Cameron. "We'll go, now. I never meant to put you in danger." 

Comprehension dawned, and Rory wondered how she couldn't have seen it before. "The animals," she breathed. "You're the one. When they're not here, you–are _you_ the one who takes care of them?" 

"Come on," Jess nudged her. "We've made enough trouble for Cameron." 

"But–but-" she stuttered, tripping over the rope as Jess set her on her feet. She wasn't indignant, so much as flushed and flustered; she didn't want the guys to know that while Jess had been wired tight with fear, she'd been wildly undone. She glanced at Jess, barely able to meet his eyes. "He works for the _Hartzke brothers_." 

"It doesn't matter, Rory." Jess seemed tired, putting a hand to his ribs. "Technically, so do I."   
  


The path was wide enough to travel two abreast, so Jess led her to the prearranged point with an arm around her waist. She was only mildly bothered by the blindfold, for she trusted him, and they were well matched--in perfect step. She was so happy. Jess was okay, and they were _leaving_. She rested her head on his shoulder, the autumn sun warm on her face. 

"I guess this is it." He stopped her with a light touch. She heard him set down the laptop. He turned her, and untied the blindfold. 

"Cameron is one of those guys who wouldn't travel by ship if a woman was on board," Rory said. Blinking at the sudden light, she motioned for the bandana. "Can I have it to tie back my hair?" 

"Knock yourself out." Jess turned away, pulling a sheet of paper from his back pocket.   
  
Rory was surprised that the sun was so high, but it had taken a while for them to get ready. There had been the question of clothing, as Cameron had been unwilling to part with any of his mother's things, calling them keepsakes. In the end, he'd given her a shapeless work shirt that hung to her knees, and a pair of worn trousers she swam in, even with the cuffs rolled up and the waist rolled down. She continued to wear Jess's jean jacket--Jess had the black sweater. Cameron had offered them both fresh socks, but Rory had opted to wear her shoes with bare feet, because Cameron's thick socks made them pinch. Her saddle shoes, never intended for rigorous hiking, were in rough shape, and she had put them on with great reluctance. 

Rory made a ponytail, but it pulled. She undid it, and folded the blindfold into a headband instead. "Know the way?" she asked Jess, bending over to tie the ends of bandana at the nape of her neck. 

He turned to her, frowning. "I'm not sure I get this. When he drew it for me, I thought it was totally user-friendly, but now-" 

She straightened, tossing back her hair, and for some reason, Jess smiled. "There," she said, pointing. She bit her lip. "Whoops." 

"What?" He raised an eyebrow. "You weren't even looking. He made you turn away." 

"You were waving it all over the place," she said apologetically. 

"But he made you turn away," Jess insisted. 

"Yeah," she agreed. "He made me turn and face the wardrobe. The one with mirrors on the doors." 

"Shit." 

"Sorry. But I saw the map about fifty times." 

"But you saw it _backwards_." He looked incredulous. Rory shrugged, and Jess added, "If you weren't so good looking, you'd be one of those spooky geniuses." 

"It doesn't matter," she said. "But we take the left fork." 

"Cameron would blow a fuse." 

She made a face. "Sweetie, that guy saved our bacon, and I am extremely grateful to him for that. But he is cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs." 

Jess folded the map, and stuffed it back in his pocket. He held out his hand. "So, you could find your way back there, right? All this blindfold stuff . . ." 

Once again, she fell in beside him. "I guess it's just when you think you've got a foolproof plan that somehow, somebody pulls the rug out from under you. Or you forget an important detail--like who's on which side of the mirror." She didn't think it necessary to mention the thought she'd had before, about deeds and property records, and how easy it would be to research abandoned cranberry farms in the Pine Barrens. _If I had the address the Hartzkes are using, it would be even easier_, she thought. _And Jess knows that_. 

He snickered. She grinned, pleased he was amused instead of angry at her caginess. He had made a lot of promises to Cameron on her behalf--she'd heard them all. But in the end, he was on _her_ side, and knowing that made her feel very good. "I love you," she said. 

"Oh, God, I love you too. You have no idea." He drew her close and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. He swept aside a branch, and Rory's heart leapt. 

"This is it," she breathed. "We're there." 

Directly ahead, there was a bright patch of sunlight. Through an opening in the trees, Rory could see three weathered planks forming a bridge over a ditch. She dropped Jess's hand, and pranced forward, delighted. The ditch was deep with rainwater, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw a culvert that ran under the road. On the other side of the ditch, she could see the service road. It was unpaved, with weeds and purple flowers sprouting from a grassy strip in the middle of deep furrows. 

"Rory, wait!" Jess called after her, and there was a thud as he dumped the laptop. "Let me go first." He scooted in behind her on the bridge, and grabbed her around the waist. 

"Hey!" she gasped, as he picked her up. "You're giving me a wedgie!" He pivoted sharply, depositing her back on the bridge so that he was between her and the road. 

"Let me go first," he repeated. 

"Don't pick me up! You'll hurt yourself!" 

"Okay," he said. "Shut up. And stay there until I call you. In fact, get down." He gave her a stern look. With a sigh, she crouched, putting down a hand to keep her balance. Jess inched forward, until he was standing in the reeds at the side of the road. He leaned out, then snapped back, going down on one knee. He looked at her over his shoulder, and his face was ashen. 

"What?" she mouthed. 

His Adam's apple jumped. 

"_What_?!" she hissed. 

"It's Buddy Hartzke," he whispered, bending his head in defeat. 

They hid flat on their bellies, shoulder to shoulder under the low canopy of a pine tree. "The only reason he didn't see me is because he was taking a piss," Jess said. Normally, he drew the line at saying things like 'piss' to her, but he was being atypically coarse in his agitation. His body was alive with twitches, and Rory could see very plainly that he was at a loss, and afraid. She was afraid, too. She was afraid that one puff of air spinning in the wrong direction would send him to a dark place fresh in his imagination. Jess let out a shaky breath. 

"You're okay," she whispered, putting her hand on top of his. 

"I don't know how long he's been there, but he's dug in. I could see cigarette butts everywhere." His voice, low to begin with, dropped even further. "The others could be anywhere." 

"So, we wait," Rory whispered. 

"But, for how long?" Jess said bleakly. "Rory, if we don't get out of the Pine Barrens, I am going to die." 

She knew he meant that literally, and that it was true.   
  


She awoke with a start, and tried to sit up. Jess put his hand over her mouth, pulling her close. "Do you remember what's going on?" 

She nodded, her eyes wide. He let go, and she whispered, "We–we could go back to Mister Still's." 

"Cameron's," he corrected, with a shake of his head. "No. I promised him I would take you away. I can't–I can't go back on my word. I don't _want_ to. The guy helped us. He doesn't deserve . . . he doesn't deserve to–to-" 

She cut him off. "All right. Let's _go_. Let's walk out of here. Right now." 

"I've been thinking that. And if we have to, we will. But- " His voice trailed away. 

She continued for him, "The others could be anywhere, and the last time we tried to walk out of the Barrens, we nearly died of exposure. We couldn't follow the road. We'd have to walk in the woods . . ." 

"And if we made it, we'd have no car. Yeah." He sighed. "That's about where I'm at with that plan, too." 

"Okay," she said carefully. She made a line in the dirt with her finger. "Jess? So . . . this is the road." 

"Yeah?" 

"Where's the car?" 

"Why?" 

"Please, where's the car?" 

He made an X with the tip of his finger. "It's here. On the other side of the road, not too far down from where we are." 

"Okay, good. What was he doing?" 

"Eugene? I told you what he was doing." 

"Oh, right," she said, blushing. "No, I meant, do you think he's hiding in the woods, or what?" 

"Man," Jess whispered. "I didn't think of that. Okay, the way the car is parked, it's off to the side, with the nose facing out to the road. I sort of tried to hide it. I didn't want to just park on the side-" 

"Uh-huh," she interrupted, because he was digressing in his nervousness, and she wanted to encourage him along. 

"He must be sitting on the hood of the car, because I saw the butts. He's just sitting on the hood of the car chain-smoking." He paused, his lip tightening. "That's not exactly subtle." 

"Well, that's what I was wondering," Rory explained. "When you said you saw the butts, it made me think. He's not waiting to jump out at us. He's not _hiding_." 

"So?" 

"So, we know where he is." 

"Yeah, he's sitting on our car, preventing us from getting the fuck out of here." 

"Jess, I think . . . I think I have a plan."   
  


They crept out from under the tree, and she showed him the culvert. "It runs right under the road. Someone-" She cleared her throat delicately. "_Someone_ could crawl through, get on the other side of the road, and circle all the way around to the car. Jump in when he's not looking, and peel away." 

"And if he's sitting on the hood-" 

"Oh, man," she breathed. "Dump him off. Go anyway. And pick the other one up." 

"All right," he whispered. "When I get there, I'll throw a rock or something, and that will distract him-" 

Rory took a deep breath. "I'll go." 

"No way." Jess looked horrified. 

"Baby, I have to. It has to be me." 

"Rory, it's way too dangerous." 

"It's more dangerous for you. Jess, no–look at me." She put her hand on his scratchy chin, to make him look at her. "He doesn't want to kill me." She smiled sadly, feeling as though she must cry. She set her shoulders. "And anyhow, if he catches me--you're just going to rescue me again, right? So we've got all our-" 

"Bases covered," he finished. "Rory, this plan doesn't even _begin_ to cover our bases." 

"It _has_ to be me. Your shoulders won't fit. Besides, Cameron said you're not supposed to get wet." 

"No." He shook his head. "I'm not going hide in the bushes, and send my girlfriend off to confront-" 

"Please," she interrupted. "Let me _do_ this." She caught the front of his sweater. Pulling him close, she pressed a hard kiss to his lips. "I just–I have to know where you are, and that you're _safe_. So stay. Stay here and wait for me. I'll be fine." 

"No," he refused. 

"Don't forget the laptop," she reminded him, and slid down into the ditch. 

"Dammit, Rory!" He made a quick grab for the back of her jacket, and missed. "Get up here!" He splashed after her into the water, but by the time he was knee deep, she had already crawled up into the culvert. 

"Oh, this is gross," she moaned. It was a rusted, corrugated metal culvert, not even wide enough in diameter for her get up on her hands and knees. After all the rain, the water should have been higher, but ahead, illuminated by the opening on the far side, Rory could see how debris was blocking the drainage. Not relishing the idea of crawling through all that clogged matter, she sucked a breath in through her teeth, and was about to start wriggling, when a hand closed around her ankle. "Jess?" She looked over her shoulder. He was crouching in the ditch, with a hand on the lip of the culvert, leaning in as far in as he could. " Jess, no!" She kicked at him. "Let go!" She tried to scoot forward, but he dragged her back, sliding the oversized trousers off her hips in the process. "Oh, Jess," she groaned, as the cold water seeped into her underwear. "Why do you have to be such a chauvinist pig? Is it the Italian thing?" 

"Get out of there, goddamn it!" He gave her ankle another yank, and she slid face first into the water. She lifted her head, sputtering. She wiggled forward, but Jess strained, and with a grunt, caught her again. "You little minx," he hissed. "You're six years old! I should _spank_ you!" 

"Let's discuss this calmly." Her whisper was wafer-thin in the closed space; the trickle of the water was louder. Her hands were white-knuckled; she didn't want him to pull her out, so she was holding tight to the ridges, with her fingers splayed. She glanced over her shoulder, and saw him, darkly angry in a hot circle of light. "Notice how I can fit," she said, "but you seem to be hampered by your slightly larger size." 

"Rory, get out of there." 

"Well," she said. "I'm afraid I can't turn around." 

"Stop fighting me, and let me pull you out of there." 

"This is the division of labor. Next time, be quicker, and you can come up with the plan." 

"Stop being so freaking flip! This is _Buddy Hartzke_. He's a sick, perverted psycho, and he wants to split you in two!" 

"_What_?" 

"Come out." 

"But, what does that _mean_?" she asked, in a wavering voice. 

"It doesn't mean _anything_. Please, baby. Stop screwing around." 

"I–I'm going to get the car, now." She pressed her lips together. 

"I didn't mean to say that. Please, you're upset. Come on. I'm sorry, okay? We'll figure something out." 

"I'm going," she said grimly. 

"Rory! I'm afraid you'll get scared and have a blackout!" 

"I don't have blackouts," she informed him icily. "I am not an _alcoholic_." She tugged, and got her ankle free. "Wait for me. Don't do anything _stupid_." 

"Christ," he sighed. "Stop!" 

She raised an eyebrow. "Yes?" 

"The keys?" 

"Oh," she said hollowly. 

"Under the floor mat. Or behind the visor. One or the other." 

"Thanks," she whispered. "See you soon."   
  


In a way, the fact that she was sopping wet and miserable was a _good_ thing, because after she had sneaked through the trees, and finally caught sight of Buddy Hartzke reclining in a posture of complete abandon on the hood of their car, she was too cold to devote much energy to being scared of him. Buddy exhaled a sharp plume of smoke, singing to himself, "Romeo and Juliet, together in eternity . . ." 

Rory crept toward the car, remembering what Jess had said about throwing a rock. She hunkered in behind bush with dark purple branches, and looked, but she couldn't find any rocks. She picked up a stick. She edged forward, and darted behind a shrub with yellowing leaves. She intended to throw the stick into the trees across the road. Buddy would hear the noise, go investigate, and leave the car unattended. It was a great plan. Rory tossed the stick. It made a lazy arc, spinning high in the air. She raised her head to mark its progress, putting up a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. The stick whacked a branch, and plunged to the ground, landing at her feet. "Oh, pooh," she said. 

Buddy slid off the car, tossing away his smoke. He peered into the brush, and his eyes widened. "I'll be damned. Hey, kitten. Come over here, and I'll give you some milk." 

"I'm not thirsty," she said politely. 

"Here, kitty, kitty," Buddy called in a low voice. "Want some P.B. and fluff? I know you like it. You ate it all." Buddy came forward, and Rory took a quick step back. She tripped over a root, landing on her butt. Buddy laughed, and that was almost the end of it, right there. She wanted to give up. Rory forced herself to roll to the side, and scrambled to her feet. "Come on," he implored. "Now you're just being a pain." 

Eyes on him, Rory danced backward. She passed a pine tree, and slid in behind. Buddy sighed in irritation. Rory feinted to the right, and when Buddy moved to meet her, she broke left, and began to run. "Please be open, please be open," she prayed, holding up her pants as she ran. She jumped a patch of grass, beating Buddy Hartzke by a nose--and that included fumbling madly with the door handle, clambering in, and locking the door. "Ha-hah!" she wheezed, triumphant. 

Buddy rolled across the hood of the car. Rory shrieked, and scrambled to the driver's side, slamming down the front and back locks simultaneously. "You can't get in!" she screamed. "It's locked!" 

"Open the door." Buddy's voice was nasal on the other side of the glass. 

"I will not!" 

"You're making me have to break the window. I don't mind breaking the window--but I don't want you to get cut." 

"You can't break these windows!" Rory screamed, inventing furiously. "These are specially tempered, shatter-resistant glass!" 

"I'm looking for a rock," Buddy informed her, pressing his face to the window. "In two seconds I'm starting to look. Come out of there." 

"You're insane," Rory breathed. She wasn't sure if he could hear her, now that she wasn't screaming, but he was staring right at her. Maybe he could read lips. 

"I was so worried about you." He circled the car, and rattled the back door on the passenger side. Rory had forgotten about it; to her relief, it was locked. "Come on," he pleaded. "I'll take you home." 

"Home," Rory repeated, her chest tight. She flipped down the visor. No keys. 

"Home," Buddy confirmed. "You'll have a kitty-cat pillow, and your very own collar." Rory choked on a sob, and felt under the seat. Her hand closed around something, and she brought it out. Jess's wallet. She tossed in the back seat. There was a rap on her window, and she yelped. Buddy was gesturing to her. "Roll it down." 

"_You_ roll it down," Rory said senselessly, and folded herself over her knees to check under the floor mat. She found something, and held it up. It was a miniature ziplock bag, half-filled with tiny pills. She had no idea what it was, and tossed it in the back, as well. When her hand closed around the key ring, she almost burst into tears. 

"A couple of inches," Buddy was saying. "Just to talk." 

"You all want to _talk_ to me." Her hands were shaking so badly, she had to try a couple of times before fitting the key into the ignition. 

"I want to make sure you're okay to drive. You look frazzled. Ladies shouldn't drive when they're frazzled. Plus, there's all that road rage these days. Somebody might beat you up. I don't think you should go. Do you even know how to drive? I think it might be illegal, or something. You don't want to break the law, do you? Roll it down a couple of inches. Please?" 

She shook her head, and he thumped the door with his fist. She let out small scream, jumping, and he said, "I can't believe you're leaving without your boyfriend. Man, that's cold." 

Rory froze. "Wha–what?" 

"Roll down the window," he repeated, and after a long, frightened hesitation, she complied--but only half an inch. 

"What are you talking about?" 

"More," Buddy said, with an infuriating grin that said he knew he had her over a barrel. 

She cranked the window down another notch. 

"More," he said inexorably. 

"Please," she whispered. 

Buddy frowned. "What are you wearing? I hate it." 

Rory put a hand to her throat. "What are you talking about?" 

"I want you to wear a pretty dress." 

"Please," she said. "What are you talking about?" 

"I like a dress with a short skirt. I'll pick it out." 

"No--about Jess. Where is he? What did you mean?" 

"Will you wear it if I pick it out?" 

"Yes!" she gasped. 

"Even if it's see-through?" 

Her throat closed up. "Would I even have a choice?" 

"No." Buddy leaned against the car, crossing his arms over his chest. "But I wanted to make sure you knew that." He rapped the window with his knuckle. "Unlock it." 

Rory reached for the lock. "What did you do?" She looked up at him, her eyes filming over. "How did you catch him?" 

Buddy raised an eyebrow. "Catch him? We've had him the whole time." 

Her fingers had been closing over the nub of the lock; now, she pulled her hand away. "What do you mean--you've had him the whole time?" 

Buddy laughed. "That little pissant freak piece of shit is tied up in our shed. There's no way he could get free. And even if he did--which he can't--he's locked in." 

Rory grayed out a little at that point, because what he was telling her was too terrible. She caught herself fading, and swallowed around the lump in her throat. She turned the key in the ignition. 

"It won't run," he opined. "It's been sitting in the rain for days." 

"Days," she whispered. "Exactly." The engine caught, and Buddy swore. 

"Don't do that," he warned. "That's bad news for the boyfriend." 

"You–you're his cousin," she stuttered. "I just don't understand." 

Buddy leaned down. "Think of how sad he's gonna be when he hears you didn't care enough to stay." 

"You son of bitch," Rory spat. 

"Hey! What did we say about swearing?" 

"We said _fuck you_!" Rory put the car in gear. 

"I'm gonna kill his ass if you don't get out of the car!" 

"You already did kill him!" she yelled. 

Buddy tried to jam his fingers through the crack in the window. "There are so many fucking ways I'm going to kill him. You have no _idea_. Open the goddam door!" 

"Step away from the car," Rory instructed. 

"You're being a really bad girl," Buddy informed her. 

She shot him a glance, high spots of color in her cheeks. "If I want tips on decorum, I'll ask my grandmother." 

"I never treated anybody as good as I treated you," he said. "I was really nice. I was taking care of you. I don't know where you think you're gonna go that you'll be better off. The next guy could be a real kook." 

"I don't want to hurt you," Rory said. "Scratch that. I think I'd like to hurt you very much. You really should step away from the car." 

Buddy kicked the door. "You're a hardhearted bitch. You know that? When I get you out of that car, I'm gonna show you how to behave." He unbuckled his belt, and whipped it off. "See this?" He gave the door a sharp crack with the belt. "You're gonna have stripes from your neck to your ankles!" 

She had to work her mouth for a moment, before any words came out. "That–that doesn't sound very appealing." 

Buddy groaned in frustration, clenching the belt in his meaty fist. He pointed at her. "You're going to do everything I tell you. And it starts with getting out of that car!" 

Even through the window, she could feel his terrible heat. It was dangerous to be in such close proximity to that anger, like radiation poisoning, she would feel the full effect later. Slowly, Rory lifted her head, and met his eyes. "You look nervous," she observed. "Are you going to be in very much trouble when I get away?" 

Buddy unzipped his jacket, and shrugged it off. "Oh, you're not getting away." He began to wrap the jacket around his arm. 

Rory gulped, and was about to put her foot on the gas. She stopped. She pressed her lips together, and glanced at Buddy Hartzke out of the corner of her eye. "There is one thing you could do to make me get out of this car," she said, calculating. "One simple, tiny thing." 

"Okay," Buddy said quickly. He wiped his forehead with his hand. 

"I want to ask you a question." 

"Ask away." 

"All you have to do is tell me the truth about something." The absurdity of turning to her kidnaper as a source of information because her boyfriend habitually lied to her, did not escape her. 

"Fine." Buddy Hartzke was fidgeting with impatience. "Twenty questions. Big fan. Big fan of the game. Fire away." 

"_One_ question," Rory said softly. 

"Hit me." 

"What you did. What you did to me. Are . . . are there pictures?"   
  


For a second, the tires spun, and she was afraid she was going to get stuck. The car rocked wildly, and Rory pulled with a bump onto the service road, settling into the well-worn ruts. She shot forward, leaving Buddy behind. Jess emerged from the trees well before the footbridge, and she slammed on the brakes, skidding. He was wet to mid-thigh, lugging the laptop, and a very big branch. Rory stared at him, open-mouthed. He wasn't where he was supposed to be. She thought he might run around to the passenger side, but he rapped her window as Buddy had. She unlocked the door. He tossed away the branch and climbed in, shoving her roughly aside. "Ow, Jess!" she wailed, as dumped the laptop on her knees. She let it slide to the floor. 

"What the hell-?" He glanced in the mirror. "Were you _talking_ to him?" 

She pointed. "Didn't we agree that you would wait down there?" 

"Like I was going to let you do that all alone!" he snapped. "I was going to fucking kneecap him--since I could never reach his big Godzilla head!" 

"But, I told you I would pick you up-" 

"You were supposed to _drive_. Get in the car and _drive_. Dump him on his fat ass, and _drive_!" 

Rory looked over her shoulder, and witnessed the exact moment when Buddy Hartzke saw Jess. His face darkened in anger, and she saw him swear. He started down the road. "Oh, God, Jess. Go!" 

Jess shook his head. "I don't _believe_ you. Why, Rory? _Why_?" Incredibly, he began to execute a tight, three-point turn. 

Rory was terrified. She thought it was nuts to try turning the car; the ruts were like streetcar tracks. "What are you doing? He's coming!" 

"Why did you have to _talk_ to him?" 

"He's right there!" she screeched. "He's coming!" 

"Put your fucking seatbelt on." His voice was grim. The nose of the car was now pointed at Buddy Hartzke. 

Her fingers were clumsy as she buckled the belt. "What are you _doing_?!" 

"We're _leaving_," Jess told her. 

"He's not getting out of the way!" 

"I don't care," he spat. 

"Please," she begged. "I want to go the right way!" 

"This _is_ the right way." He shot her a dark glance, and her stomach dropped. 

"_No_," she whispered. 

"Close your eyes." Jess tightened his hands on the wheel.   
  
  


~ * ~

To be continued . . .


	21. 21

_For **RubyKate**, who read the outline back in February, and then scenes, and then the same scenes with slightly different content, and somehow managed to read every time with fresh eyes. And to **kimlockt**, who had this chapter dumped in her lap at the last minute, and cheerfully provided support and feedback. You're both valued friends, and I feel very fortunate to have found you. I'd also like to express my gratitude to the voters at the **Literati Fanfiction Awards**, who picked Shivery as their favorite AU. Thank you._   


21. 

"Brace yourself." Jess stomped on the gas. The car shot forward, and there was a shout. Buddy sidestepped abruptly, ending up outside Rory's door. He teetered, hemmed in by the underbrush, and for an instant his crotch was pressed flat to her window. 

Rory turned her face away. 

Then they had squeezed past Buddy Hartzke. Branches trailed over the roof of the car, and they sped though flickering sun and shadow. "Did he have a cell phone?" Jess asked. 

Rory stared at him blankly. There was hand smear on his window and past that, an endless blur of green. She wound her own hands together in her lap, unable to process his question. Somewhere behind her eyes she was in a shell-shocked waking dream, seeing their car crash into Buddy Hartzke. In one version of the dream Buddy Hartzke sailed high over the tree tops, and in another, he accordion-scrunched their car, like in a cartoon. 

"Rory!" Jess snapped. "Did he have a fucking phone or not?" 

"What?" She blinked. "How-how am I supposed to know that?" 

"I have no idea what you know or don't know!" 

"Excuse me?" 

"You were having a real heart to heart," Jess spat. "I can't _believe_ you talked to him." He glanced over his shoulder, turning back to adjust the mirror. "How many times have I told you not to talk to him?" 

"Did you tell me not to talk to him?" She shot a worried look out the rear window. "I really don't remember." Buddy Hartzke was standing in the middle of the road. He was getting smaller--something Rory found remarkable--as their car sped away. 

"I didn't see a car," said Jess. "Did you see a car?" 

She closed her eyes and tried to think. "Uh-" 

"I didn't see another car. There was no car." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "No car, no phone. Okay." Jess let out a hard breath. He almost seemed winded. "He'll have to hike back to the house." 

Rory swallowed, her throat tight. She didn't want to think about the house, or talk about the house. She felt like she needed to pee. 

"Hang on," Jess said suddenly. They were coming up on a three-way stop, and she just had time to wedge her foot against the dash before he made a hard left, fishtailing on a spray of gravel. He righted the car with a swear, and glanced her direction.   
  
"Maybe we have a chance," he said.   
  


Following a mini van with a red canoe strapped to the roof, Jess drove into a toll plaza, accepting a ticket from the guy in the booth. He pulled onto the Garden State Parkway, neatly inserting their car into the other traffic. The shore section of the Parkway ran through tall trees and dense brush, and to Rory, who had become accustomed to thinking of herself as a captive, it was hard to believe they were traveling under their own power, and free. The world seemed strange and false, and she was so afraid that their freedom was false as well. If there hadn't been so many other vehicles in the intricate highway dance, weaving and jockeying for position, she might have been fooled into thinking that they had never escaped. "We have a head start," Jess said. "That's good. They don't know where we're headed, and that's also good." 

"Where _are_ we headed?" 

Jess looked over his shoulder and accelerated to pass. 

"Jess, where are we headed?" 

"I can't believe that was their whole plan. Leave the dumbest guy at the car, and wait for the two of us to show up."   
  
Rory looked at him, startled. _He doesn't get it_, she thought. _Buddy Hartzke was only waiting for me._

Jess slowed abruptly, and dropped back; ahead there was a dark green four-door traveling well under the speed limit. "Jeez," he griped. "Get off the road!" 

"The Har-" She coughed into her hand. "_Them_. They don't . . . they don't plan ahead. Or maybe they don't make good plans." The laptop was on the floor by her feet, taking up too much space and bugging her. She reached for it and missed, because she'd moved too quickly and the seat belt had locked. She lifted both feet and used her heels to maneuver the computer under her seat. "You always said they were stupid. It's sort of the only thing we've got going for us." She had the feeling Jess was watching her, when he should have been watching the road. She looked up, but he was staring straight ahead. 

Even though it was now a snail's pace, they were moving, putting important distance between themselves and all things Hartzke. _But how far do we have to be?_ she thought. _How far away is safe? _ Rory shivered. She had been feeling better. Clear headed and happy. She distinctly remembered seeing the service road, and being happy. Now she was wet again, and wretched. Jess was hunched over the wheel at her side, his hair in his eyes, his face set in sharp lines. _He's furious!_ she thought, a sour taste at the back of her throat. Had he really intended to kill Buddy Hartzke? 

"Jess-" she said softly. 

"Look for my cigarettes." 

"_Jess_," she said again. 

He jabbed the dashboard lighter with his middle finger. "If that fuckwit was smoking my cigarettes, I'm going back there with a bottle of soap and gasoline." When she didn't move, he leaned across the seat, scrabbling for the glove compartment. "I think I-" 

She swatted away his hand. "Jess, please." 

Jess shifted in his seat, ducking his head. "He was in our way. It was the only way out." 

"Okay," she said. 

"He was always going to get out of the way, Rory." 

"If you say so," she said. 

Jess looked her in the eye. "No normal person is going to stand there and let you smash into them with a car." 

_Normal person!_ she thought, with a shudder. The Hartzkes could not be measured by the standard of normal. _"That pissant freak piece of shit is tied up in our shed . . ."_ Did Jess not know? Until Buddy Hartzke saw Jess emerge from the woods, he'd thought Jess was still in the shed. After the first time, nobody had checked on him. Rory looked down at her lap, too frightened to hold his image in her eye. The Hartzke brothers had neglected him to death. 

I just-I didn't-" she mumbled. There was a click from the lighter, as it popped, ready. "I didn't want you to be a murderer."   
  


She was going to open her window, but he said no, it would only draw the smoke her way. He opened his instead, exhaling out of the corner of his mouth. It didn't make a difference.   
  
"Old people shouldn't drive," Jess said darkly. 

"Don't be mean about the elderly," said Rory, without much force. She felt sick. Her head was full of Buddy Hartzke's perverse vitriol, she couldn't shake it off. The smoke stink was _not_ helping. 

With his cigarette hand, Jess indicated the car ahead of them. He hadn't had the chance to pass it, and was predictably irritated. "Look at that guy. He's _short_." 

"You should talk," she said under her breath. 

"He's too short to _drive_." Holding his hand out the window, Jess flicked the cigarette, and the wind sucked it away. "Move it along, grandpa." He made a noise of exasperation, and Rory could tell he wanted to lean on the horn. She leaned forward to catch his eye, raising an eyebrow in question.   
  
"What?" Blinking, Jess put a hand to his head. "Yeah . . . you can open your window now. But not too much." 

"Thanks," she said with a small frown, wondering if he was dizzy. It had been days since he'd smoked, and he'd been so sick. She rolled her window down. 

He rolled his window up. "See the visor? He's so short he has to have a clip-on visor extension." 

"Hmm." She angled her face to drink in the fresh, smoke-free air. Immediately, her nausea receded. "Interesting." 

"Stars Hollow," he said in answer to a question she had asked ten minutes and two cigarettes earlier. "We're not stopping until we get there." 

She turned to him, eyes widening. "_No_." 

Jess saw an opportunity to pass and sped up. "Yeah, have a nice day," he said, with a snide wave to the green car. Rory caught a corner of the eye snapshot: A white-haired man returning Jess's mean-spirited gesture with a sincere seeming nod. 

"You can be such a-" Rory broke off. "_God_. I don't know." 

"Whatever." 

"Be nice to people," she said. "Then maybe everybody won't be so hot to kill you." 

"Pardon?" 

"I'm not going," she said. 

"What?" He shot her a look. "Yes, you are. You . . . stop shaking your head." 

"I can't go home." 

"You always knew that was the way this was going to end." 

She felt a surge of panic. "I _can't_." 

His hands tightened on the wheel. "Please don't give me a hard time about this. Not now." 

"I'm not," she said in what she hoped was a reasonable tone, for she could feel the darkness tugging at her, a sensation she was starting to recognize as a harbinger. Leaning forward, she hugged her stomach, fighting to stay in the conversation, in the moment, in the car beside her boyfriend. From far away she heard her own voice: "I'm just reiterating my position." 

"Reiterating-" Eyes on the road, he sighed explosively. "Well, I'm reiterating _mine_. There isn't any other option." 

"There-there are plenty of other options," she said, swallowing hard. She straightened in her seat. She was sure he hadn't seen her struggle, and now she was back in control. 

"You have to go home, Rory." 

"I don't think I have to do anything." 

"Yes," he said. "You do." 

"No." 

"Well, I'm behind the wheel, and that's the way I'm going. So unless you want to hitchhike-" 

"Maybe I _do _want to hitchhike." 

"Jesus." 

"That money-" 

"Don't start with the money." 

"The way I see it, it's mine. _I'm_ the one who took it." 

"That's bullshit." 

"I'm willing to share it with you-" 

"Very generous." 

"Give me half." 

"Not going to happen." 

"Just give me half the money." 

"Are you shitting me?" 

"No," she said. "I'm not shitting you." A flash of orange caught her eye, and she turned her head. It was a road sign indicating that an exit had been closed. Rory let out a tired breath, bending her head. "I-I want to stay with you. I'm practically debasing myself, telling you over and over, being rebuffed at every turn." She wiped a hot tear off her cheek, hoping he wouldn't see that, either. "But if you can't, if you feel you have to take me home, and that's the only thing that's acceptable to you-" She looked up, blinking. "May-maybe we should . . . split up." She didn't want him to agree to what she was proposing--it was a gloomy prospect, rattling around in the world alone, without Jess as a buffer. "You can go your way, and I'll go mine." 

"No," he said firmly. "I'm not letting you out of my sight." 

"I am relieving you of your obligation to me," she said.   
  
"I don't accept that." 

"You can do whatever you want." 

"I want to take you home." 

"Except that. Choose something else." 

"I choose to take you home." 

"No, thank you," she said.   
  
"I'm taking you home, Rory." 

"Which is where I'm not going." 

"Christ," he sighed. "Yes, you are." 

"No, I'm not." 

"This is precisely why I took the money away from you in the first place." 

"I _know_." Embarrassed, Rory crossed her ankles and pressed her thighs together, remembering how she'd been fixated on lily pads at the time. "And I think that's-" Folding her arms over her chest, she put her hands on her shoulders. "It's so . . . God!" 

"Are you cold?" He flipped on the heat, angling the middle vent so the blast hit her in the face. 

"Oh!" she said, remembering. "You said we could go to Canada." 

"What?" He grimaced. "Are you serious? When did I say that?" 

"It was just a thing you said." 

"Roll up your window." He raised an eyebrow, waiting, so Rory closed her window. "Put your sweater on, if you're cold. It's-" He looked over the seat. "There it is." 

"You were the one who wanted to go to Canada," she said. "It was your idea." 

"We are _not_ going to Canada." 

"But it's far away, and-" 

"We can't go to Canada. You--are you shivering? Grab your sweater."   
  
"I'm all wet," she said. "Then my sweater would just be wet too." 

He sighed. "I don't want you to get sick again." 

"I'm fine," she said, distracted.   
  
"Jeez, what was I thinking?" Vaguely, she was aware of it as he looked her up and down. "You're soaked." He groaned. "And you're wearing men's clothes. Fuck! Lorelai is going to love that. I can't believe we left your skirt back there." 

"It was ruined," she said, not caring. 

"I have to clean you up." 

"What?" Rory's face reddened in a slow blush; at first she thought it was the air blowing from the vent. She smoothed her damp hair, trying to put her finger on what it was that she found troubling. She saw herself, infantile, helpless, while Jess bathed her in bed.   
  
He said, "I'll keep an eye out for a place to stop." 

She chewed on her lower lip, wondering if Mister Still--mentally she corrected herself: _Cameron_--had also touched her when she was naked and helpless. He must have. Who had wrapped her chest with the mustard plaster? "Oh, God," she sighed, feeling tearful. "I-I can't stand it. I can't stand it." 

Jess misunderstood. "Rory, I don't want you to get upset-"   
  
He continued to talk, but she barely heard him. She put her hands in the pockets of the jean jacket, and that was when she found it, nestled in a corner. The condom. It had been there all along. "Oh, my God." 

Her heart thumped--once, twice--as something truly ugly skimmed the edge of her consciousness. Before she could make it out, it whisked itself away. Rory closed her hand around the condom, feeling sick. She had offered herself to Jess, and worn down, he had given in; neither of them had spared a thought for birth control. Almost. They had almost done it, and once was all it took. 

"Jess!" She lifted her head. "We-" 

Jess was still speaking: " . . . and she's your _mother-_" 

Her eye caught on his lower lip, and she couldn't drag it away. One side was fuller than the other, and that place was always a little moist, because of the odd way he held his mouth when he talked. She didn't hear anything else. 

_ Next time_, she thought, _we'll be careful_. 

Looking at his mouth, she raised her voice and talked over him. "Jess, _wait-_" He had bent a little. He could make as many arguments as he liked, but he had spoken the real truth to her with his body. If only they could find a safe place to go, to be together, she was sure he would bend again. 

"What?" he said irritably. 

"I think this is a plan," she said. 

"_What_ is?" 

"Canada." Canada as a concept was still hazy in her mind, but it was something to hang her hat on, and strangely, she felt her spirits lift. 

"Jeez," he sighed. 

"Oh, yes," she said happily. "Don't you think so?" 

He pursed his lips, and she found that delightful. Then in a careful voice he asked, "What would I do?" 

"What?" She lifted her hands, shrugging. "Work. You'd work." 

"Where would I work?" 

"Oh," she said airily. "Somewhere. And me, too. I would work too." 

"Perfect." His voice was sour. "Where would we live?" 

"Anywhere. It's big. We could get lost there." 

"You can't just cross the border and pitch a tent." 

"Maybe you can. Who knows? Have you ever been there?" 

There was an underpass, and a cold second of shade. They drove back into the light, and Jess said, "Rory, we are not wilderness people." 

She put up a hand to shield her eyes from the glare. "We–we could learn to be." 

"Rory," he said quietly. 

"Stop." 

"Rory-" He sighed, scratching under his chin. "You've been really . . . _sick_." 

"_No_," she moaned. 

"There's stuff you need that I can't--even now, just talking to you . . . yeah, you're all ballsy, let's do this and let's do that, and I don't want to go home. But for all I know, in a minute you're going to be-" 

Alarmed, she interrupted. "I can't listen to that!" 

He let out a heavy breath, and tried a different tack. "Something really bad happened-" 

"I was _there_." She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. 

"That's sort of my point." He made a faint, wet sound, and fell silent. Rory stared out her window, unseeing, and when he sniffed and cleared his throat, she didn't say anything to fill the space between them. Jess was the one to do it, his voice uneven. "You need--whatever it is you need _now_, it's something I can't do for you." 

"Oh," she whispered. She couldn't look at him. She turned away on her hip, slouching against the door. 

"Maybe you just need a time-out. Your family can afford . . . someplace quiet. _Safe_. Where medical professionals can-" 

"Medical professionals," she repeated dully. 

"You need _help_," he insisted. 

She rested her head on the window, the constant hum of the wheels setting up a blank spot of white noise between her ears. "Stop talking about it," she said, tasting the vibration on her tongue. 

"Rory-" 

"It's like you want to see me locked up in a loony bin." 

"It's like I want to see you somewhere _secure_." 

"But I don't _want_ that." 

"Where no one can hurt you. Where you can get better." 

"And you?" 

"I just have to make sure you're safe." 

She turned to him, pleading. "We . . . we are not _finished_. You and me. We never . . . we were never . . . we never got to-" 

"Rory, I need to know that you're being taken care of." 

The heat from the vent tickled her ear as she reached out, plucking at his sleeve. "_You_ take care of me." 

"Baby, I can't." 

"Jess." He looked away, and she said, "Jess, _please_." 

He shook his head, and then there was nothing but the tires on the road and warm murmur of the heater. 

"And you?" she asked sadly. "Where would you be?" 

He wouldn't look at her.   
  
"I-I would be locked up somewhere, and you'd just be out there?" She waved her hand at the expanse of road ahead. "Somewhere?" Her voice broke. "And I wouldn't know where you were, or if you were all right? Why is that okay?" 

"That's just the way it has to be." 

She shook her head, refusing. "I don't need to get better. I need to be with you."   
  


Jess was conflicted. Without requiring much in the way of input from Rory, he debated whether it was wise to stay on the Parkway--but he seemed reluctant to drive further inland. He'd said he wanted to get her dry clothes as soon as possible, but he seemed unwilling to actually stop. When she reminded him that he was wet too, and had also recently been ill, he dismissed it as a matter of small import, effectively silencing her. Grumbling, he chewed the callus on his thumb. 

Rory coasted on a haze of static, sagging against the door. She was sad. Jess had already decided everything and he wouldn't discuss it anymore. He was taking her home.   
  
Near Tom's River, Jess spat a wisp of something out of his mouth and said, "What the hell." Pulling up to a toll exit, he surrendered his ticket and a few coins for the privilege of traveling on the Garden State Parkway. He turned toward the coast. To Rory, it seemed like they were driving on a finger of highway that jutted into the ocean. Gulls circled overhead, and on the far side of long tracts of land, between buildings and brush, she caught glimpses of dark blue water, churning with whitecaps. 

She missed the sign, so she didn't catch the name of the town. Distant across the length of the front seat, Jess muttered to himself, looking for a likely place to stop. Finally he said, "_There_," and pulled into a strip mall. He drove carefully through the parking lot, past a pizza place and storefronts advertising an esthetician (nails and tanning), an office Rory dismissed because it offered a dull service--taxes or real estate or something equally boring--and a ladies' shop with a hand-lettered sign in the window indicating they also took children's clothing on consignment. 

Jess was driving so slowly, he had plenty of time to stop when a young woman walked in front of the car. She was leading a toddler by the hand, and when the baby crouched, finding something of interest on the pavement, the woman looked up sharply, making eye contact with Jess. He lifted a hand, and she smiled at him, before gathering the child up in her arms. "Oh," said Rory, feeling something inside her crack. She put her hand over her mouth to keep herself from saying anything out loud. The sentence she wanted to say started with "_My mother_," words that were rusty from disuse. 

"I'm going to park around back," Jess said.   
  
He drove along the side of the mall, past a dumpster and a payphone, and nosed into a spot against a chain link fence. Seeming satisfied, Jess opened his door and held out his hand. Rory shook her head, fingering the collar of Cameron's big shirt. She was damp and disheveled and unwilling to pretend to be a normal person in a dress shop that had recently hosted the tidy young mother. 

He seemed to know what she was feeling, because he said, "You're fine." 

"No. I-I don't want anyone to see me." 

"You can't stay here by yourself." 

"But I can't go in _there!_" She knew what she looked like. Sure, Jess had marks on his face--some of them were there because she'd made them. But it was different for guys. They got into fights, it was expected. She touched the bruise on her jaw. "I don't want people to think things about us." 

"I don't give a damn what anybody thinks. And I don't want to shop by myself." 

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Get anything. I don't care." 

"Jeez." He seemed torn, running a hand over his head. "All right," he said finally, his reluctance clear. He held up his hand. "Here's the deal. You stay here. You don't wander around. You don't talk to anybody." He had ticked the points off on his fingers. 

"_Yessir_," she said sullenly. 

"I'm not kidding." 

"I _know_. You're the one who cares what I wear." 

"Yeah, I care about handing you back to your mother when you look like-" 

"Uh-huh," she broke in. "And that's why I can't go in there. Stop hassling me." 

"I'll be quick. Rory? _Rory_." He waited until she looked. "I'll be quick."   
  
She watched him walk away. He passed the dumpster easily enough, but his step slowed near the payphone. There was something very deliberate in the way he was not looking at it, right away she got anxious. 

Rory opened her door, spilling out of the car. He turned at the noise. "What are you doing?" 

"Nothing," she said. 

He came back fast. With a gulp, she slid into the car. "I'm taking your shoes." He caught the door before she could slam it shut. 

"No!" She tried to scuttle across the seat, but he captured her ankles, pulling off her saddle shoes. "Dammit Jess!" She kicked him, and gave him a shove. He stood up and Rory pulled her door shut, shaking in anger and fear. 

"Rory," he said, on the other side of the window. 

She rolled the window down a little. "Oh, you're _so_ worried about my mental state! And then you pull a stunt like that!" She tucked her feet under herself. She was acutely aware of how naked they were. 

He held up a shoe to look inside the heel. "I needed to know what size they were, anyway." 

"You could have asked!" Her face was red. Rory had always been suspicious of Chilton's insistence on saddle shoes for the girls; unlike their distaff counterparts, the boy students had gotten to wear loafers. Adult men wore loafers, but saddle shoes were a relic of a less enlightened era. Furthermore, in saddle shoes even the most petite of girls appeared to have humongous feet. It embarrassed her to see her to see Jess waving her shoe around in broad daylight. 

"There's glass everywhere. You'll hurt your feet if you get out of the car." Jess circled the car, to open the trunk. He tossed her shoes inside.   
  
Rory rolled her window down some more, and stuck out her head. "Are you sensing a pattern here?" she called. "You're leaving me in a predicament." 

"I know." He slammed the trunk. 

"Cameron's house could have burned down while I was tied up there. And you just left me like that." 

"It had already burned," he said, coming back to her window. 

"I was trapped!" 

"You were _delirious_. And it was a better alternative than tying you to the bed, which is what Cameron wanted to do." 

"That's not the point!" 

"I know." He sighed, scratching the scab on his forehead. "I'm . . . bad at this. I get everything wrong. Which is why somebody who knows what they're doing should be making decisions about you. But for now, you're either with me all the time, or you sit tight, where I put you." 

Rory wiped her eyes, not knowing what to say. 

"Everything is fucked up," said Jess. "And it's not going to get right, not like this." 

"I'll stay here," she said. 

"Good." He turned to go. Over his shoulder he said, "I would have hated to take your pants too." 

She gasped. "That is _not_ showing concern for my delicate mental state!" 

"I told you I was bad at this."   
  


Somebody had spray-painted _2PAC_ on the brick wall in black letters, and as soon as Jess had passed that, disappearing around the corner of the building, Rory opened her door again. Back when they had been struggling to find their way out of the Pine Barrens, she'd vowed to report the Hartzkes for trafficking in exotic animals. With standard sarcasm, Jess had told her she could do it when she saw a payphone. She fully intended to follow through, and this was the first payphone she'd seen. 

She picked her away across the parking lot, avoiding the broken bits of glass. Lifting her head, she caught a whiff of sickly-sweet decay wafting from the dumpster. Her nose wrinkled, and she lost the scent. It occurred to her that when their money ran out, if she and Jess hadn't found work, they'd be street people. They might have to dumpster dive to stay alive. She fought down another wave of nausea, hastily tucking that thought away with all the other thoughts she wasn't prepared to think. Rubbing first one foot on her pant leg, and then the other, she picked up the receiver, and dialed information. 

An electronic voice answered. Rory asked it for the number to the SPCA. When she received the number, she repeated it to herself, visualizing the numerals in a trippy Rick Griffin font, like on an early _Rolling Stone Magazine_ cover. In her head, she made the numbers into a tattoo, and imagined the tattoo on Jess's upper arm. She frowned. No, she preferred Jess as he was, unadorned. She made the tattoo be on Johnny Depp's bicep, right under _Wino Forever_. There, she had it, now. She wouldn't forget the number any time soon. She picked up the phone again, this time dialing zero. 

"Er . . . hi," she said, when the line opened. "I'm trying to make a call. This phone--I'm at a payphone. It ate all my money." 

"Just a second," the operator said. "I'll reset it." There was a click. "You get your money?" 

Rory held the handset by the coin return, and put in her finger, rattling it as if she were checking for her money. She put the receiver back to her mouth. "No. I think it's broken." 

"I'll try again." The operator was a distant, efficient monotone in Rory's ear.   
  
"It's definitely broken," Rory said. 

"I'll send a repair man." 

"But my money-" Even though she had been trying to scam the operator into connecting her for free, she didn't have to fake her dismay. 

"I'll send a repair man," the operator said firmly, and disconnected. 

_I guess I deserved that_. Flushing, Rory hung up. Trying to compose herself, she decided it was for the best. Even if her call had gone through, there were questions she wouldn't have been able to answer. She didn't know the address of the house in the Pine Barrens, and every time she thought about it, that terrible place, she started to feel cold and blank and stupid. 

"Hey," Jess said, and her stomach lurched. 

"Oh, God!" She put a hand to her throat. Her heart was racing crazily. "You scared me!" 

"Sorry." He sounded anything but. He gave her an odd smile, and she wondered what he had to smile about. Why wasn't he angry? She wasn't supposed to get out of the car.   
  
"Where did you-?" She peered around his shoulder. He had come up from behind, where the car was parked. She sighed. "Did you walk all the way around?" 

"Needed to stretch my legs." 

"You were spying on me." 

"Yeah." He touched her hair, brushing it behind her shoulder. "C'mon. You want a piggyback?" 

"What?" She half-expected him to start yelling, but it seemed he simply wanted to escort her back to the car. "Stop . . . carrying me so much," she said, not really expressing anything important. She wanted to tell him to stop babying her, and to stop making nasty threats, like telling her he was going to steal her trousers if she didn't swear on the exact copy of _Vanity Fair_ inscribed by Thackeray to Dickens that she'd do everything he told her. But she didn't have the energy. 

Jess shrugged, offering his arm. She threaded her arm through his, and they made their way slowly back to the car, with Rory limping the tiniest bit. "Up," he said, sliding his hands down to her hips. 

After her illness, she hardly had any strength in her arms, but he helped her and she was able to hoist herself onto the hood of the car. She didn't have much padding left on her tailbone either, but the metal was warm. She let the heat soak into her and started to relax. "I thought you were going to get me something to wear." 

"I am." He picked up her foot, examining it with careful fingers. He let go to look at the other. 

"I didn't step on anything," she said. "I was careful." He dusted off the bottom of her foot, and applied both thumbs, pressing gently. She felt it there, but somewhere else as well, a place deep in her body that was much better than her foot. Rory shuddered, leaning back on her hands. "Oh," she sighed. "Do . . . do the other one." As an afterthought, she added, "Please." 

He looked up at her. "I'm glad you called." 

"You are?" She was surprised. "I thought you didn't want me to. Or didn't . . . care." 

"No, I wanted you to." 

"Oh." With a flick of her tongue, she wet her lips, wishing he'd massage her feet for real. It was a delicious thought. "Well, it was silly. I didn't accomplish anything." 

His eyebrows drew together. "What?" 

"It doesn't matter." She sat up straight, rolling her head on her neck until she felt a pleasant little crack. "I wouldn't have been able to explain it properly." 

"But what did she say?" A gull squawked, circling, and landed on the dumpster with a sharp click of talons. 

Rory had started to comb out her hair with her fingers, but now she stopped, raising an eyebrow. "She?" 

He paused, and she was confused by the tightness she saw in his face. "I thought you would call your mother collect." 

"Oh!" said Rory angrily. 

"When you were sick, you begged her to come take care of you. You couldn't understand why she wouldn't-" The gull spread its wings and sailed down from the dumpster. It began to nose around on the pavement. 

Her attention divided between Jess and the gull, Rory said, "I did not!" 

"When I saw the phone . . . I thought if I didn't say anything, you would call her on your own." He threw up his hands, making a sharp sound of frustration. "And I knew for a fact that the bigger the goddamned deal I made out of _you_ waiting in the _car_, the better chance there was of you getting _out_, just to spite me." 

Rory clenched her teeth. He was impossible! "Nobody is calling my _mother! _Not me, not you! Especially not you! And if you do, I will run away from you. Even if you steal every scrap of clothing I have! I'll run away _naked!_ I don't care!" She shook her head, her lips pressed in a white line. "It's not your decision, Jess. You think it is, but it isn't. If you don't want to be with me, fine. Dump me! Leave me on the side of the road!" 

"I am _not_ going to dump you on the side of the road! God! Knowing you--I can't even imagine what kind of trouble you could get into. Someone will throw a sack over your head, and the next thing you know you'll be serving in the female French Foreign Legion!" 

"There _is_ no female French Foreign Legion!" 

"I'm not leaving you. Not now, not _ever_. Don't say it again." 

"You have to stop this! You have to stop yelling and threatening me!" 

"Jesus." He ran a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Jeez." 

"I mean it." 

His shoulders sagged. "I still need to get you something to wear," he said, not meeting her eyes. 

"I'll wait here." She slid down from the hood of the car. He opened her door, and handed her inside. He shut the door carefully, and she pressed down the lock. Before he could turn away, she asked, "Can I have the keys?" 

He opened and closed his mouth, looking incredulous. It took him a moment to find his voice. "As if." 

"But I want to listen to the radio." 

He almost laughed. "Too bad." 

"I wouldn't drive away and leave you here. I wouldn't leave you in a _predicament_." She crossed her arms over her chest, setting her mouth into a sulky moue. "Unlike certain other people." 

"Man," he sighed. "Roll that window down." 

"It _is_ down." 

"Roll it down some more." 

"Why?" She was already doing it. 

"'Cause I'm telling you to." He leaned in. "'Cause I have to put up with your crazy shit." 

"For your information, you have some crazy shit too." 

"Tell me something I don't know," he said, and he kissed her.   
  


She watched his ass as he walked away, thinking that if all it took to make him kiss her was sticking out her lower lip, she was going to be sticking out her lower lip a whole lot more often. She leaned close to her half-open window, blowing softly. Her breath scrolled across the glass, and with the tip of her finger, she wrote in the fog: _J–E–S–S_. She put her fingertips to her lips, feeling happily soft and girly. The taste of his kiss was still in her mouth, and it was pleasing to her--but strong. A little on the musky side. _I don't care if he shaves_, she thought. _But he's gonna be investing in a pack of Dentyne Ice._

She drew up her legs, hooking her heels on the edge of the seat. She wanted to lose herself in him and a great swirl of gold. She wanted him to bend over her and kiss her again, this time in a bed of flowers. She smiled, recognizing that she was being goofy. But she couldn't help thinking of how nice it had been, side by side in bed, in that quiet bubble of their own time, when she'd believed they were going to finally have their chance. 

Her heart sped up, and her face got hot as she remembered what had happened when Cameron interrupted them. The first thing Cameron had done was cut the rope that bound her to the ceiling hook. It had taken him less than a second. But Jess--he'd had time to carry her to bed, to build the fire, boil water. _Jess had stripped off her nightgown_ . . . and still he hadn't set her free. 

"_Oh!_" she gasped, outraged. Why? Why had he left her tied up? Rory moaned, burying her face in her hands. He had been willing to make _love_ to her like that. Reeling, she wanted to vomit. 

Shakily, she opened the door and got out of the car. "Tricks," she said frantically. "Tricks and lies, he tells me lies-" What sort of game was Jess playing now? Across the parking lot the gull took wing. Unconsciously, Rory turned her head to follow it, and once again found herself staring at the payphone. Her stomach dropped. "Oh, _no_. No, Jess, no." She started to run. 

She ran all the way around the mall, hurting her feet. She shouldered the door of the dress shop, barging in with a bang. Jess was at the counter, talking to an older woman. Both of them looked up. Her expression was quizzical, while he seemed subdued; it was evident in his uncertain stance that he felt out of his element. Rory noticed with surprise that he had shopped quickly; there was a small pile in front of him, including a shoe box. 

"Excuse me!" she said urgently. 

"Rory?" 

She shot him a glare. To the woman, she directed, "May I use your phone?" 

Frowning, the woman said, "But I already told _him_ no." Jess's shoulders shot up as he tensed. 

"You!" Rory gasped. 

"Rory-" Jess held out his hands. 

She shook her head. "No!" 

"Rory," said Jess, taking a step toward her. 

"_No!_" Her arm flew out, striking a rotating stand, sending plastic packets of tights and pantyhose all over the floor. Jess made a grab for her, and she jerked away into a clothes rack, setting the hangers clanging. 

He cornered her by the display of folded sweaters, trapping her in his arms. She fought him, angry enough to try for an elbow in his sore spot. He blocked the move, kneeing her in the back of the leg. When she crumpled, he rode her down to the floor. "Okay." He held her tight. "Okay." 

"How could you?" she sobbed. "I told you _no!_" 

"I won't," he said into her hair. 

"Do you promise?" 

There was a swirl of rose perfume, and the click of heels on the tiles. "All right, that's enough." The saleslady's shadow fell over them, and Jess looked up. 

"Lady, I just dropped $47.03 in your store. Let me have a second, here." 

"Don't get smart," she said. "Give her to me." 

"What?" 

"Is this all for her?" 

"She needs-" His head swivelled, following the woman. She opened the shoe box, folding back the tissue. Rory wiped her eyes, and the next thing she saw was that the saleslady had draped something navy over her arm. She returned, offering Rory her hand. 

"Come on, sweetheart. We'll put a cold cloth on your forehead." Slowly, Rory got to her feet, and the saleslady pulled her away from Jess. She led Rory between two clothes racks, the shoulders of blouses and blazers closing around them in a delicate rustle. Her hand wasn't much bigger than Rory's. 

"_You_ stay there," the woman called, stopping Jess in his tracks. "Put the '_back-in-fifteen_' sign on the door."   
  


"This is what he bought?" Rory stared at herself in a full-length mirror that was leaning against the stockroom wall. They were the first words she'd spoken since her outburst. The woman had bathed her face and neck from the sink, while Rory stood dumbly. She had been so efficient and impersonal, Rory hadn't felt the urge to resist when it became clear that the saleslady intended to undress her and dress her again, as if she were an oversized doll. 

"_I_ picked it out," the woman said. She rummaged in a drawer, setting aside a box cutter and a price gun, and located a plastic hair brush. She began to tend to Rory's hair with long, swift strokes. 

Wincing, Rory put a hand to her head. "But what did he ask for?" She found it hard to imagine Jess had described a denim jumper with wide shoulder straps, and two large pockets, and a skirt that missed her knees by inches. Was the phrase 'denim jumper' even in his vocabulary? Then there were the white tights, and--she shook her head ruefully--the sturdy, Mary Jane-style Doc Martin knock-offs. Okay, maybe he had picked the shoes. Rory tugged the long sleeved blue T-shirt over her hands, to hide the marks that she feared would never go away. At least he'd gotten that part right. 

"He said something tidy, like a school uniform." With nimble fingers, the saleswoman began to braid Rory's hair. Rory had the feeling she dressed and combed out a lot of girls, girls who squirmed, girls who weren't mired in uncertain passivity, girls who complained loudly as the saleslady stuffed them into equally idiotic outfits. 

"Jess used the word 'tidy?'" 

The woman shrugged, winding an elastic around the end of the braid. "It was the best I could do. He was in a hurry." She caught Rory by surprise, spinning her around by the shoulders. "There." She smiled for the first time. Rory didn't think the smile was for her. The woman was simply pleased with her handiwork. "You look like a girl." 

"Uh," said Rory, feeling her hair. "I'm not so sure that's a good thing." The braid was at the nape of her neck, not a French braid like she usually wore. It was really long. The woman stared at her with an arched eyebrow. Rory didn't want the saleslady to think she was an _ingrate_, so by way of explanation she said, "I don't really like it when people look at me. The-the way they look at girls. It's-" She shrugged helplessly, and looked away. "It doesn't matter." 

There was a rap at the door, startling them both. Jess called, "What's going on?" 

"I should go," Rory said. 

"Should you?" the woman asked. 

Rory leaned toward her, not certain what she'd heard. "I'm sorry?" 

"Rory!" said Jess. 

"Ladies only!" the woman snapped. To Rory, she said, "You don't _have_ to go anywhere." 

Rory raised her eyebrows. "What?" 

"I'll make you a cup of tea," the saleslady said. "We can talk. Or not talk. Whatever you want." 

"I'm sorry, I-" 

"I can help you," she said earnestly. "I'm offering to help you." 

"But I don't need any help." The doorknob rattled, and Rory jumped. 

"He can't get in," the woman told her. "I locked it." 

"That won't make any difference," Rory said. "He can get it open." 

"Oh, dear." The saleslady put a hand to her mouth. "Then go quickly, out the back." 

"I don't understand," said Rory. 

"I'll stall him." 

"Okay, _you_ don't understand," Rory said. There was a soft _snikt_ in the background. 

"I'll-" The saleslady stiffened, and made a half turn. Jess was standing in the doorway. His face was hard. 

"She doesn't need to sneak away. Mind your own goddamn business." 

Her reply was quick, and very hot. "A girl in trouble _is_ my business." 

"Oh," said Rory. "No. Wait-" 

"I'm not the problem here," Jess said to the woman. "But I'm thinking maybe you are." 

"You little punk," the woman sputtered. 

"You-" 

"I'm ready!" Rory cut him off before he could say something really insulting. Hastily, she gathered the oversized shirt and trousers Cameron had given her. The saleswoman had draped Jess's jean jacket over the back of a chair. Rory snatched it up, and handed it to Jess. "Let's go." 

He took his jacket from her, letting it dangle loosely from his hand. "Go out the _back_. Show her how much you want to do that." 

"Jess, stop-" Apologetic, Rory turned to the saleslady. "Thank you," she said. "You _did_ help-" 

"You're free to leave any time you want," he said. "Tell her. Tell her I already told you that." 

She caught his arm. "You're making a bad situation worse," she hissed in his ear.   
  


"Lie down." He gestured for Rory to get in the back seat, tossing the jacket in after her. Jess closed her door, and got behind the wheel. 

"Jess-" Rory put Cameron's things on the floor, and stretched out, pillowing her head on her arm. "I'm sorry. I-I don't know what . . . that's exactly what I didn't want to happen. I'm sorry." 

He threw his arm over the seat, and looked down at her. "Everything I said to that woman was complete crap. You are not free to leave. You are not _going_ to leave. You are going back to your _mother_. I don't care how many temper tantrums you have." 

"I-I wasn't . . . it wasn't-" 

"I'm not going to be blackmailed by your . . . _psychotic fugues_." 

"Psychotic," she whispered. 

"You are not well," he said, enunciating carefully. "You need _medical treatment_." She rolled away, showing him her back. "Rory. _Rory_." 

She closed her eyes, to shut him out, and pressed her face to the seat. "_No_." Her voice was muffled. 

"That nosey bitch." His voice cracked. "She looked at me like I was dirt she scraped off the bottom of her shoe." 

"I _know_," Rory said mournfully. "I didn't mean for it to happen!" 

"Rory, you-" He made a sound and fell silent. 

He backed out slowly, turning the car. Rory tucked her hands together under her chin, pulling up her knees. She felt small, and wanted to make herself as small as possible.   
  
It had been darker behind the mall, and after a few minutes it got bright on the other side of her eyelids. The car settled into a steady rhythm. 

"Rory." His voice found her in the back seat, where she huddled in her misery. "I am only hanging on by my fingernails." 

"Jess, I'm so, so sorry-" 

"Go to sleep," he said dully. "Just . . . go to sleep."   
  


Rory opened her eyes with a sleepy murmur. It took her a moment to recall that she had crawled in from the foot of the bed, so as not to disturb Jess. She was facing away from him. Her bum hurt, her hip hurt--the positions available to her were limited. She had been dozing fitfully, finding it hard to relax. When she had to muffle her coughs, she buried her face in the pillow. 

She rolled over, and whispered in his ear. "Open your eyes." 

There was only the faint sigh of breath escaping his mouth. Ignoring her aches, she got up on her knees. She took a handful of the quilt, easing it off him. "Only a moment," she said softly. "He can't catch cold." 

There were bruises on his chest. 

"Oh, Jess." She ran a light hand over his ribs. "They shouldn't have touched you." Carefully, she kissed the corner of his mouth. She pulled the quilt lower, wanting to admire his hipbone, all lean and pointy and sticking out. Her hand, seemingly of its own volition, hovered over- 

Guiltily, she looked up at the door, to make sure Mister Still wasn't coming. She pressed her lips together, and softly, gently, she put her hand out, tenting her fingers. 

Rory snatched her hand away, before she squeezed Jess and hurt him. She had only wanted to _look_. She sat back on her heels, and that was when Paris said, "Come away from there." 

"What?" said Rory, surprised. "Oh. _You_." Paris was standing at the foot of the bed, crisp in her school uniform. "Go away, Paris." 

"Come with me," Paris said, and Rory found herself following Paris up the stairs. 

"I don't really want to go outside. I think I'm not supposed to, anyway." 

"You're not supposed to do a lot of things," Paris replied. "Doesn't seem to have stopped you." 

"No, I . . . I'm_ waiting_." 

"Waiting for _what?_" Paris asked. "Seriously, Gilmore. You can be such a pill." 

"But, I-" 

"Yeah, yeah," Paris said rudely. "You want to play with Jess Mariano." 

"Play?" 

"I told you I'd cover for you, and I have been all along. You understand it's just pretend, right?" 

Rory's eyes widened. "Just pretend?" 

"Rory, this simply can't go on. You can't _stay_ here." 

"I don't want to stay _here_," Rory said. "Jess is sick, and Mister Still is so mean to me-" 

"_Cameron_," Paris said irritably. She gave Rory a shove, and Rory stumbled on rocks and pine cones she hadn't felt a moment earlier. 

"My feet!" She rounded on Paris, and gave her a sharp smack across the face. "_Oh!_" she gasped, putting a hand to her mouth. "Paris, I-I didn't mean to-" 

"You don't mean to do anything!" Paris grabbed a fistful of Rory's hair, and _pulled_. "If you slap somebody, you should mean it!" 

"Now I mean it!" Rory slapped Paris again. "Stop pulling!" 

"They killed him!" Paris yelled. "They killed your boyfriend over you--and all you want to do is violate him while he's sleeping! People are _dying_ because of you!" 

"All-almost!" Rory cried. "They _almost_ killed him. Don't you think I know it?" The wind whipped through the trees, and her nightgown flapped behind her. There was a _yank_, and she flew high up in the branches, dangling from the rope that was knotted around her waist. She wriggled, and began to revolve slowly, like a piñata. 

Far below, she saw Paris bend, searching the ground. 

"Paris!" Rory tried to be stern, but had very little authority in her present position. A stone sailed up, and hit her between the eyes. "Paris!" she shrieked, and she fell. 

Rory awoke with a jolt, and sat up. She was thankful to be awake. _What would happen if you were there for the landing part of the fall?_ she wondered. _Would you die?_ She drew up her legs, staring out the back window. There wasn't much to see, just some tall trees crowding the road, and day-dark street lights at regular intervals. 

"Yo, Miss Daisy," Jess said in a low voice. "If you're going to sit up, put your seat belt on." 

Rory tried to hang onto her dream, she wanted to remember. But as she turned to meet his eyes in the mirror the last tendrils fell away, and she yawned, covering her mouth with her hand. "Was I snoring?" 

"Yeah." 

She rubbed her eyes. "Oh." 

"It was more of a delicate snuffle. Very ladylike." 

"I see." Rory caught a glimpse of a sign out the window, and read it wrong. It said _'One Way,'_ but she'd seen it as _'No way.' _ She smiled to herself, stretching. She yawned again, and scratched her nose. She sprawled across the back seat, legs crossed, bobbing her foot. She made little noises with her mouth. In the front seat, Jess cleared his throat, and she looked up, expecting him to speak. He was silent. 

Bored, Rory pointed her toe, considering her new, Mary Jane-style Doc Martin knock-offs. After a few seconds of that, she leaned over the front seat. "I know why you picked these clothes," she whispered in the pale whorl of his ear. 

"Excuse me? I didn't." 

"Oh, but you did." She licked the corner of his jaw with a quick dart of her tongue, and fell back in her seat. She unbuckled her shoe and slipped it off. She slid forward and waved it in front of him. "_This_. This whole getup." 

He shoved her shoe out of his face. "I'm driving!" 

"You--you're making me look like a kid. On purpose. To be a reminder to you." 

"I don't know what you're talking about." 

She raised an eyebrow. "You do _so_ know what I'm talking about." 

His eyes in the mirror were dark, the wild black-brown of overturned earth in the forest. "It's not working," he said in a low voice. The words had weight, like a warning. 

"Is that so?" she asked, stretching the words saucily. She kicked off her other shoe, and lay down again.   
  


Rory started awake when the car stopped, but her eyelids were heavy and she couldn't hold them up. Distantly, she heard a door open and close. She opened her eyes again, hearing the furnace kick in. Buddy Hartzke leaned over her, arranging the sides of her shirt around her bare breasts. "You're so beautiful," he told her. "I have to immortalize the moment." 

She moaned in pain, trying to lift her head.   
  
Buddy whispered, "Shh," smoothing her hair. He picked up one of her wrists. It was limp. Rory never did see what he did with her hand, but she felt her leg move. "That's perfect," he said. There was a painful light. He nudged her hip with his foot, rolling her over on her stomach. 

She was sure she was in her own bed. Her mother was outside the door. All she had to do was call out, and her mother would come. Rory was desperate to see her mother, but she couldn't make her mouth make a noise. She was strangling, because there was a weight on her chest, crushing her. 

She was on a rag rug, staring under a bed. Someone was there with her, and he was evil. He yanked her arms behind her back, tying them with a cord that bit into her wrists. "_Suh-suh-stop!_" she slurred, her voice ending in a childish whine. He had her pinned . . . 

_ move one finger_

. . . and she couldn't escape . . . 

_one finger!_

. . . she made an enormous effort, and maybe she twitched the index finger of her right hand, and maybe she didn't, but she blinked, and her eyes began to focus. Gradually, she became of aware of her slack mouth. Her cheek was mashed to the seat. Her arms were folded underneath her, bristling with pins and needles. 

Heart hammering, Rory sat up on her knees. She was so scared! All those feelings--they had been awfully vivid. Which was dream, and which was true memory? With a sick feeling in her stomach, she remembered Buddy Hartzke, on the other side of the window, bending to answer her question. "Don't think about it," she whispered to herself. "_Don't._" 

Hastily, she looked down at her breasts, to make sure she was properly covered. She pulled down her skirt, wishing it was longer. Oh--why hadn't Jess gotten her a pair of pants? With the back of her hand, she wiped the drool off her chin. She really did feel as if someone had been on her. Touching her. Mauling her, even. She rubbed her arms, to wake them up, and tried to catch her breath. 

She was all alone in the car. She scooped up her shoes, and fumbled the door open. She tossed out the shoes and stepped into them, not bothering to do up the buckles. 

She was standing on the shoulder of a quiet secondary road. There were no buildings, no traffic. All she could see was a wide field of grass and scraggily bushes. Some trees. No ocean. Disoriented, she wondered where they were. 

Jess was a short distance off, partially obscured by the tall grass, but his business was plain. Apparently, he had needed a pit stop. He turned, and seemed surprised to find her awake. He made an aborted motion, as if to cover himself. Something passed over his face, an obvious decision to be unselfconscious. His shoulders relaxed, and called out: "Hey." He fit himself back into his jeans, doing up the zipper. "You hungry?" 

Rory shrugged. 

He closed the top button. "_I'm_ hungry."   
  


She had taken apart her braid so that her hair hung in her face. "Keep your head down," he instructed. "Stay behind me." 

Rory tugged the sleeves of her T-shirt over her wrists, tucking her hands in her armpits. She followed him with her head bent, into a cloud of food smell and chatter, passing plastic plants and a coat rack. Jess went straight to the counter. A waitress with a nimbus of frizzy red hair burst through a set of swinging doors. She was carrying a coffee pot and balancing a hot plate. Rory knew the plate was hot, because the girl was griping it with the corner of her apron. She sang out, "Sit anywhere." 

In the din from the other patrons, Rory was able to make out: "It's not enough you have to buy the groceries. Then you have to carry them in!" 

"And unpack 'em," somebody else said. 

"And cook 'em!" the first voice returned. 

The waitress, seeing that Rory and Jess hadn't moved, called over her shoulder, "Oh, okay. Hang on." She delivered the plate to a young man who hadn't found it necessary to remove his trucker mesh cap in a restaurant. The girl topped up his coffee, and poured coffee at three tables on her way back to the counter. Fleetingly, Rory wondered if Jess was taking a professional interest--if he found her efficient, or overinvested. Jess had been so ambivalent about his work at Luke's diner that with respect to customer service, he had tended to be slow off the mark. 

Coming back to the counter, the girl asked, "You want it to go?" She put down the coffee pot to take up an order pad. 

"Burger," Jess said. "Ah . . . _cheese_ burger. Fries. Make that a _bacon_ cheese burger. Everything but onion." 

"We have a special on a bacon, mushroom, Swiss," the girl offered, twitching her pencil toward a placard. 

"She doesn't like mushrooms." 

Rory realized he was ordering for her. "I like _onions_." 

"Forget the onions," he said shortly. 

"Oh." She sidled closer to him. "Okay." 

The girl looked up from her order pad. "And?" 

"Ah-" Jess hesitated. Rory saw his nostrils flare. His jaw was tight; if anything, he looked a little green. 

"Have-" Rory shot a quick glance at the waitress, and dipped her chin again. "Do you have cranberry juice?" 

"I guess," the girl said. 

"He'll have some of that," Rory said. "And a soup, or something." 

"What's the soup?" Jess asked, as Rory nudged his hand with her own. His fingers opened, and she slid her hand into his. As Jess arranged for a bowl of minestrone, Rory entwined her fingers with his. He gave her hand a squeeze. 

"It's gonna take a minute," the girl said to Jess. "You might as well sit." 

"Yeah. Well . . . I think maybe we'll stay after all." 

"I'll bring you coffee?" 

"Sure." Jess led Rory to the second last booth on the side. He slid into a bench, the oxblood vinyl squeaking under his butt. Rory faltered in the isle. The restaurant was entirely chrome and windows, open, exposed, and it was much too warm and shiny. Rory stood at the edge of the table, squinting. She was having a slight problem breathing, too. Even her heart felt funny. 

"There's so many people," she whispered. 

"What?" 

"I-I have to go-" 

"What's the matter?" 

She looked over her shoulder. "I have to go to the bathroom," she said, with a clearer sense of purpose. He got to his feet, and she said, "No, I can go by myself." 

He frowned, leaning around her to look down the hall that led to the restrooms. "I'm watching you," he said in her ear. "You have three minutes." 

"Quit it," she said irritably. 

"If you're not back when your time's up, I'm coming in after you." 

"Yeah, _that_ will go over really well." 

"It happens all the time. Guys go into the Ladies' and vice versa. I used to live for it at Luke's." He grinned, and ran a hand down her arm. "All that shrieking." 

She sighed. "Jess, why do you have to threaten me?" 

He ignored that, taking on a wistful expression, as if he were recalling an extremely fond memory. "Kirk never did get used to being walked in on." 

Rory held up a finger in warning. "Don't make a scene." 

"There's only gonna be a scene if you make one." He pulled her to him, coming to rest with his forehead against hers. "Don't make one. Not here. For once . . . let me just be a guy on a date with his girl." His soft breath was warm on her face. "Okay? We'll sit, we'll eat, we'll be on our way." 

Rory opened her mouth, but he forestalled further comment with a kiss. She tried to put her arms around his neck, but he wouldn't let her. "I don't want to say goodbye either," he whispered. "You do know that, right?"   
  


Rory wet a paper towel. She put it on her forehead, then held up her hair to get at the back of her neck, calming herself with the same technique the saleslady had used at the dress shop. The panic seemed to be dissipating, but it was just as likely it had been situational. The washroom was quiet, and not well lit--maybe when she went back out, she'd get fluttery all over again. 

A toilet flushed, and she jumped. 

A girl in low-riders and a pink hoodie came up to the sink. She said, "Excuse me," so Rory backed away, giving her space to put her bag on the counter. The girl ran her hands under the tap, drying them off on her bottom. She pawed through her purse, found a mascara, and began to touch up her lashes. Rory met her eyes in the mirror. The girl offered her an easy smile, but Rory looked away. She was afraid the girl would want to give her a stick of concealer, or worse, try to talk to her. 

Rory wiped her eyes with the paper towel, and crumpled it up. She stuffed it in the garbage can, and when she looked up again, the girl was on her way out of the restroom. Rory ended up following her down the hallway, and when the girl stopped to toss her purse into the last booth by the window, Rory had to wait for her to take her seat--an action that was complicated by the girl's choice of apparel. Rory slid into her own seat, across from Jess, and directly behind the girl's companion. 

"Took you long enough." It was a nasal, masculine voice, coming from the man the bathroom girl had joined. He could have been speaking in Rory's ear, and she cringed. He sounded like a jerk. 

"Don't you want me to be pretty?" the girl teased. 

"I want to _eat_," the man said, and the couple fell silent. 

Jess touched Rory's knee under the table. She leaned forward, and he whispered, "Want to switch?" 

"Why?" 

"He's a tool," Jess said. 

"I'm fine." She slumped back in her seat. "Huh. I'm tired." 

He shrugged. "You can sleep again. After we eat." 

"Oh, I don't know." She scratched the bridge of her nose, looking at her reflection in the window. She had already checked herself in the restroom mirror, but still felt as though she had the imprint of the car seat on her cheek. "I might like to sit with you." She looked at him. "Jess-" 

"Check this out." He held up his placemat. "The entire menu is on the placemat, and every food item has a little picture beside it." 

"In case you want to eat, but are illiterate?" 

He laughed. "Or you want to order something, but forgot that particular word." 

"Oh," she whined. "_I_ want to order using the pictures." 

"It's nice someone is keeping the craft of hieroglyphics from falling into disuse." 

"Maybe they're part of a guild, or something." 

"We should check around for a plaque." The redheaded waitress appeared with the coffee pot. "Do you have a plaque?" he asked her. 

"Nope," she said cheerfully, turning over Rory's coffee cup. Jess turned over his cup, and pushed it in front of Rory. 

The waitress filled the second cup and left them, moving on to the couple in the next booth. Rory smelled her coffee, and took a big slurp. She made a small, happy sound, and some of the tightness in her back unwound. She put her elbows on the table. 

"Good?" he asked. 

"No." Her eyes were bright over the rim of her cup. "It's scorched." 

"She needs to make a fresh pot." He leaned into the isle, looking as if he wanted to call the waitress back. She was busy tending to the grouch and the girl from the restroom. 

"Scorched and watery." 

"Rory, don't drink that." 

"Oh, I'm gonna drink several cups." 

"You almost had that monkey off your back," he said, and Rory laughed. 

"I don't _want_ it off my back." 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the waitress returning from the last booth. Then behind her, Rory heard: "What a _dog_." The waitress gasped. 

Jess sat up in his seat. "Son of a _bitch_." 

"What?" said Rory. "What happened?" 

The waitress hadn't moved--she was standing in the isle near Rory's elbow, looking like she might cry. Jess reached out, and snagged a finger in the oversized pocket of her uniform. "Hey." 

The girl seemed dazed. "What?" 

"Water, when you get a chance." He smiled. As always, it was face-changing. The smile warmed his brown eyes, smoothing his sharp angles. 

"Oh-okay," the waitress replied, automatically refilling Rory's cup. Rory tilted her head to the side. The girl's cheeks were faintly pink, and she seemed unwilling to meet Jess's eyes. 

"Your order will be up in a second," the waitress said softly. She made an awkward turn, and drifted away. 

"Thank you," Rory called after her. Her lip twitched. "Is that what it's like for you?" 

"Huh?" 

"It's just that easy." 

"What is?" 

She gestured to the girl. "You've made a conquest." 

"A conquest." There was a plastic cup of crayons on the table by the napkin dispenser, and he toyed with it idly, making a face. "A _conquest_." 

"Stop it," she said with a giggle. 

"I'd hate to think I made a conquest just because some other guy's being a prick." 

"Is that what happened? I didn't see." 

He gave her a lazy grin. "I'm not . . . in the market for a conquest." 

Rory reached across the table, and took his hand, and they sat like that until the waitress returned with their food.   
  


The redhead cleared their table, except for the coffee cups, both of which Rory jealously guarded. Jess was smoothing out crumpled bills. "Good thing I broke one of the hundreds. Places like this don't like to take big bills." 

From behind her, Rory heard, "I just wrote a song. I thought it up this very minute." 

She froze. 

The girl from the bathroom said, "Oh, yeah? How does it go?" 

"I have to find a place to stash all this dough." Jess squirmed, trying to get at some coins in his front pocket. He spun the check across the table. "Here, you do the math." 

"Lea-leave the waitress a five," Rory stuttered. She hardly knew what she was saying. "She-she _is_ in love with you." 

"Five?" Jess's forehead wrinkled. "On this tab? That seems exorbitant. I should be thinking about economizing." 

Rory filed that last comment away for later consideration; she was preoccupied by the scene unfolding at her back. The man cleared his throat. "The song goes a little something like this:   


Oh . . . your tits are kinda saggy,

and your ass is awful flabby,

but . . . cook me up some supper,

and I'll keep you around . . . "

Jess groaned. "I can't believe we have to listen to this idiot." 

"Shh!" Rory waved her hand in his face and Jess reared back in his seat. 

"What-?" 

"Mmph!" Rory shook her head, putting a finger to her lips. She had recognized the couple in the last booth. The last time she'd heard those voices, she'd been shirtless, flat on her stomach on the cold ground, cowering in the tomatoes. 

"Saggy and flabby don't rhyme," the girl pointed out. 

"What?" said the man, sounding dangerous. 

Jess raised an impatient eyebrow, while Rory clutched the edge of the table. Her heart was sluggish, and she was starting to feel numb. She didn't know what to do. The Peeing-Singing Man had never seen her face, or heard her voice, but she couldn't explain how it was that she knew him. He was right behind her. He'd hear every word. And he might very well know Jess. He might recognize Jess's voice. Jess had a very distinctive voice. He might turn around and see Jess's _face_. What if Peeing-Singing Man knew the Hartzke brothers were looking for Jess? He could call them. Even if she and Jess left right away, Peeing-Singing Man could tell the Hartzke brothers which way they were headed. 

The girl sighed. "I said that's a hit song, honey." 

"You_ bet_ it is," said Peeing-Singing Man. 

Before she could be completely paralyzed by fear and indecision, Rory hooked a crayon out of the little plastic cup. She flipped over her placemat. She groaned in frustration when she saw that the back was printed with a children's game--some sort of maze. Of course. That was what the crayons were _for_. On the scalloped border around the placemat, she wrote: _Do you know everybody the H.'s know?_

"Okay," Jess said, obviously bewildered. "Let's play Pictionary." 

She flipped the placemat around, and showed it to him. 

"For a while," Peeing-Singing Man said behind Rory's shoulder. 

"What's that?" the girl asked. 

"I need to work in 'I'll keep you around . . . _for a while_.'" 

Jess read, frowning. He shook his head, but Rory didn't think he was answering '_No_.' He was telling her he didn't get it. 

She snatched back the placemat and scribbled: _Does everybody know you?_ She showed it to him. 

Impatiently, he hissed, "What is it?" 

She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "Them," she mouthed. In tiny print across a corner she wrote: _ They were there_!!! 

"The 'a while' part is important," Peeing-Singing Man said loudly, "because I wouldn't want anybody to think I'd keep a flabby-assed, saggy-tit girl around, no matter how good a cook she was." He laughed. 

"Of course not," said the girl. 

"Fuck." Jess slid lower in his seat. "Are you sure?" he whispered. Rory nodded vehemently. He motioned for her placemat. He'd spilled soup on his own, and the waitress had cleared it with the plates. He took a crayon, began to write, and noticed he had taken a yellow crayon. Sighing in exasperation, he switched it for a purple. He wrote down the side of the placemat, and reading the words upside down (_Did they see you?_), she shook her head. He'd been writing, not watching her, so when he looked up, she shook her head again. 

Jess let out a ragged breath. _Maybe they saw me_, he wrote along the bottom. _Sometime_. 

Stricken, she whispered, "What do we do?" 

Jess looked up sharply, his eyes widening. It took Rory a second to interpret the heavy, probing silence that was radiating from the booth behind her. Peeing-Singing Man had broken off his treatise on the complications of song writing. 

Jess slouched lower in his seat, trying to cover his face with his hand. Rory turned her head slightly, to look at the reflection in the window, and saw that Peeing-Singing Man had done the same; he had stopped talking because she and Jess had stopped talking. The Peeing-Singing Man was in Rory's opinion a man who was resolutely self-absorbed, but for whatever reason, he had fallen prey to an uneasy moment of self-consciousness--the sort where a person engaged in a private conversation in a public place, suddenly realizes that he's being listened to. 

Jess made a sharp motion with his hand, and without him having to say it, or write it, Rory knew what he wanted. He wanted her to talk. 

"Oh, I absolutely hated _Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Rings_," she said, her voice breathy. It wasn't true; she'd loved it. It was just that Dean had made her sit through it so many times. She continued: "It was so long! And there was that scene, where they were at Galadriel's tree house, or whatever. Those pillows could have come from K-mart." Snorting derisively, she picked up her coffee cup, and took a tiny sip. "You know, the book . . . Tolkien liked languages. He made up the Elf language--created a whole lexicon--and then he had to find something to do with it. It's the only reason he wrote the book in the first place." 

Jess nodded his encouragement, and she said, "On the topic of languages, and movies, did you know Anthony Burgess made up an entire language for a movie called _Quest for Fire? _ It's about cavemen." She leaned forward. Jess was writing something new. "The movie, I mean. Cavemen. Did-did you know that?" 

Jess nodded again, his eyes on the placemat, and Rory knew that this time he was nodding because he did know that piece of movie trivia. It was the sort of thing Jess would know. 

"I wonder if Milla Jovovich made up that nutty bird language from _The Fifth Element_," Rory mused aloud, "or if somebody helped her." 

"Keep you around for a while," said Peeing-Singing Man. "Pile, style, mile. I need a good rhyme." 

Rory breathed a sigh of relief. "An-Anthony Burgess spoke something like . . . thirteen languages," she said, her monologue petering out. "Plus the two he made up-" 

"Can you use the word 'tits?'" the girl asked. 

"Klingon," Jess supplied, in an undertone. 

"They'll beep that for the radio," Peeing-Singing Man assured his girlfriend. 

"Klingon!" Rory said brightly. "Why, someone wrote an entire Klingon dictionary! You-you could buy an island in Oceania, and make people live there, and legislate that the national language is Klingon, and everybody has to speak it, or else they go to jail!" She swallowed. "You could even translate something, like-like the Bha-bha-" Her mouth was too dry. 

"_Bhagavad Gita_," Jess whispered. 

"You-you could translate the _Bhagavad Gita_ into Klingon." She worked her mouth, trying to form more words. "If you really wanted to do it-" 

Jess slid the placemat across the table. It was unnecessary; she had already read what he had written. 

_We have to get out of here._   
  


  
The crowded parking lot was bright with dazzling sun rays reflecting off windshields. Floating from the road there was the sound of traffic, approaching and passing in irregular waves. It was a noise Rory found herself waiting for, the same way she would anticipate a sneeze. Jess fished in his pocket for the car keys. Looking over her shoulder, Rory said, "Spies. They have spies everywhere." 

He unlocked the driver's side door, reached through, and popped the lock on the back door from inside. "Coincidence. It was a coincidence." 

"_No_," she moaned. "Wha-what if you take me home, and they're already there, and they see me, and they find out that's where I live?" She clutched his sleeve. "Oh, God, Jess. My _mother_ is there." 

Nervously, Jess said, "Baby, you have to calm down." 

"Please, Jess. Please don't make me go back there!" 

He reached for her arm. "Get in-" 

She surged into him, pressing him up against the car. "Please, please, please." She shoved her leg roughly between his, kissing him hard. 

He got her by the upper arms, and held her off. "Rory, we've got to go!" 

"_Please,_" she begged, trying to make him kiss her. If only he would touch her and kiss her, he would forget he had to take her home. 

He spun her, and got an arm around her waist. She gasped, stiffening. He opened the back door and strong-armed her into the car, hooking his arm under her knees to fold in her legs. He shut the door. 

"Jess," she said, after he had climbed behind the wheel. 

He started the car. "That just looked like--if anybody saw that . . . dammit, Rory! We'll be lucky if no one calls the cops on me." He backed out of the parking space. Rory had scrambled up on her knees, and she saw him shake his head. "Christ! You made it look like I was _abducting_ you!" 

"Jess, please-" 

"Shut up!" he said angrily, and in the mirror she could see that his face was red. 

He pulled out of the parking lot without slowing, and there was a squeal of tires behind them. Jess looked over his shoulder. "_Perfect_." 

There was a tricked-out yellow car tight on their bumper. The driver honked the horn. Jess rolled down his window, and stuck out his hand. "Go around," he snapped, gesturing, but the car didn't pass. "And now he wants to tailgate. We don't have time for this shit." 

"What shit?" 

"I cut him off, and he's pissed." Jess turned off the main road, and the yellow car followed. 

"Wha-what are you doing?" 

"I have to deal with this," he said. "George Costanza here is ready to follow us all the way to Stars Hollow." He pulled up on the shoulder, and opened his door. 

"Jess!" 

"Stay here! Or so help me God-" Leaving the thought unfinished, he got out of the car. 

Rory knelt on the seat, staring out the back window. The yellow car had driven past, pulling up in front. The driver left his engine running, and little clouds of exhaust puffed out from underneath. The guys met between the two cars, throwing long shadows in the last of the sun. Both were wary, both shifting from foot to foot. The other driver was Jess's age, maybe a few years older, with colorless hair combed back from a face pocked with acne scars.   
  
Rory blew out a breath, floating a lock of hair that was dangling between her eyes. Softly, she spoke, her plea intended for the guy who belonged to her. "Please . . . please don't do anything stupid." She tucked her hair behind her ear. 

Jess said something. The other guy said something. The other guy said something _else_, and Jess took a sharp step forward. Rory thought they were going to fight, and her stomach tightened. There wasn't anything she could do about it--either they would fight, or they wouldn't. _This_ time, she was staying in the car. 

This is what happened next. They shook hands. Rory's eyes widened. The other driver went back to his car, made a U-turn, and drove back the way they'd come. 

Jess opened her door. Rory could tell that he was still angry; there was heat in his face. "Wha-what happened?" She started to slide back, but he crawled onto her, pulling her leg over his hip. "What are you doing?" 

"I apologized," he said in a low voice. "It was the easiest thing to do." 

"But what are you _doing?_" 

He was squishing her into the seat, but her leg curled around him prettily, and although it was hard to think of things to do with her hands, it didn't look like he needed her to do _much_--it seemed he had her right where he wanted her. 

"Why now?" she whispered, although she already knew. His blood was up. It was as simple as that. 

"Jess . . . wait-" She squirmed, the toe of her other foot just touching the floor. "I'm caught . . . my hair-" She pulled her hair free, and lay back and let him kiss her. 

His hands were restless, first on her breasts, then skimming her hips and thighs. Rory thought that maybe he was frustrated with the jumper; it was denim, almost impenetrable. She found something to do finally, and pulled him close. "Sometimes, I disappear," she whispered in his ear. "But you--I can feel you everywhere, and it feels so good." 

"It's sick how much I think of you," he whispered. "Your breasts, your feet . . . I don't know if I see you as a whole, but it's not in pieces, either." 

"You're keeping me here," she said. "You. Your body, you-you push against me, you're so . . . heavy. It makes me have a shape. Does that make sense?" 

He cupped her cheek with his hand. "I have . . . it's more . . . _impressions_. Your hair falling on your shoulders. You make these little faces. You scrunch up your lips. You make this sound with your mouth. And the color of your eyes-" 

"I don't want to disappear, I _don't_." 

"How sick is this? I could get . . . you know . . . just thinking about your eyes-" 

"I want to stay-" 

"It's not entirely normal. I'm sure it isn't-" 

"I want-" 

"We still have the room," he whispered into her mouth. 

She jumped, scratching the back of his neck. It was his own fault; he'd found a way under the tight skirt of her jumper, surprising her. "The-the room?" 

"I paid it up in advance." He nudged up her chin and kissed her throat. "I thought I could get you to wait there." 

She tensed. Flat on her back, with him on top and the seat rising up beside her head, she began to feel that it would be very easy for her to be smothered. Rory sighed out a shaky breath, and suddenly, it wasn't good anymore. She was pinned down and splayed. "Jess-" He kissed her and she made a noise, turning her head. 

"What?" 

"Please," she whispered. "Please." 

"What did I do?" 

"I think I feel frightened." 

He got off her, and she slid back against the door, crossing her arms over her breasts. Jess was watching, and she shook out her hair so she'd have something to hide behind. She heard him put his head back, sighing. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him rub his hands on his thighs. 

"I should have done what you asked," she said softly, with her head bent. 

He was quiet for such a long time. She had to look up to make sure he was still there. He held out his hand. Rory placed her fingers in his, and he gave her hand a squeeze. He pulled her across the seat and under his arm. 

"Is-is it safe?" she asked. "To go back there?" 

"There's a hundred little towns, up and down the coast. They never knew where we were staying." 

"I want to go to the room," she said, sniffling into his sweater. "With you." 

"One more night." He hugged her. "Our last night." He lifted her chin. Absently, she nodded her permission, and he kissed her on the lips. "We have to make this count."   
  


They hit Avon-by-the-Sea as the sun dipped below the horizon. Jess drove into the parking lot at the Sea View motel. There were only two cars at the back, a rusted hatchback in the farthest spot, and a dark gray sedan with a green and white rental sticker on the bumper. Jess pulled up in front of their unit, parking beside the rental. "This is the moment of truth." He killed the engine. "Either they've kicked us out, or our stuff is still there." He opened his door. 

"Jess, what if it's somebody else's room now?" She slipped on his jean jacket. The jacket was damp, but she wanted to wear it. 

"No car." He shrugged. "If it is somebody else's, they aren't there now. We can always back out quietly, and go somewhere else." 

Rory crawled out of the car, stretching. "I'd like to see the ocean. Can we?" 

"Later." He crossed in front of their bumper, stopping to pat down his pockets. "Damn. Now I don't know where the key is." They had left the curtains to their room closed, and in the waning light, there was enough of a reflection that Rory could see Jess's shoulders mirrored in the window. 

Rory found the fact that the curtains were still drawn to be a hopeful sign. It was the off-season, and the motel wasn't busy; the management couldn't have had a desperate need to turn over the room. If the motel had turfed them out, wouldn't housekeeping have been in? Surely the maid would have left the curtains open to brighten up the room. 

Jess frowned. "I don't want to ask the guy for a new key. He's a weasel. He might figure out we left and try to charge us again." Easing his hand out of his tight front pocket, Jess lifted his head. "Hey, is it in your pocket?" 

"I don't think so." She slipped her hand in the pocket of the jean jacket, and found the condom. She closed her fingers around it, smiling. She couldn't stop smiling. 

Jess seemed puzzled. "What?" 

"I think I'm just happy." 

"Good. I'm . . . that's good." He smiled too. Rory's chest was tight, but for once, it wasn't dread. A rose blush spilled into her cheeks, and she touched her face. It was warm. 

There was a slight, salt-scented breeze drifting back and forth across the parking lot, and Rory wanted to rise up on her toes to greet it; finally, after all this time, she and Jess would be together. After sharing this, they could never be parted. If she had to convince him every day to allow her just one more night, she would do it, until the nights added up into a lifetime. 

They stared at each other across the car, grinning stupidly. 

He raised a shoulder: _Well?_

She raised hers: _Shall we?_

Jess turned to the door. He felt along the inside edge, drumming with his fingers. He took the doorknob in his hand, bracing his foot at the bottom. Leaning on the car, Rory watched. She was still smiling, impossibly content. He'd figure it out. No one knew where they were, and they had all the time in the world. 

His arm tightened, as if he was using the knob as a lever, and he shoved from the bottom with his foot. The door swung back into the room, and he almost fell in after. "Whoa!" He found his feet. "Did you leave the door unlocked?" 

"No. I went first." 

"Weird." He slipped lightly through the doorway, his sweater melting into the shadow. 

Rory's eyes narrowed. Jess was wearing a black sweater he'd gotten from Cameron. He'd needed something dark for his commando raid, and it was warmer than the T-shirt he'd been wearing while the Hartzkes had held him prisoner. The sky blue T-shirt with the word _Avon_ printed across the front in white letters. 

"Jess!" she cried. "Don't go in there!" 

There was a startled yelp, and a crash. Something fell on the floor. Rory heard a scuffle, and indistinct mutters. Another crash. The wall rattled. 

"_No_." She had to lock her knees and plant her feet to prevent herself from running straight into the room. Not knowing was unbearable. What was happening to Jess? 

She looked up and down the row of motel rooms. 

The rental car! Somebody was in the next room! She ran to that door, and pounded on it with the heel of her hand. "Help us!" she screamed. "Help us! Is anyone there?" 

From their room there was another crash, and a sharp protest that was almost immediately stifled. After that, terrifying silence. 

"Help!" Her voice cracked. "Anybody? Oh, please!" 

Turning her back on Jess was very hard, but she had find help. She ran down the row of motel room doors, all closed and blank like shut eyes. At the last room, where the rusted car was parked, she hammered on the door. "Help! Help us!" 

Rory had the feeling that there was someone in there, someone who thought she sounded nuts, someone who didn't care to open his door to a crazy person. Desperate, she kicked the door. The curtain twitched, and she wheeled around, gasping. She pressed up against the glass, a hand on either side of her face. "Is anyone there? Please!" 

Whoever it was, he wouldn't come out. She backed away from the room, choking. What should she do? Should she run around the building and try to find the office? Would the guy call the police for her? She heard Jess's voice in her head: _He's a weasel._

She had no idea what was happening to her boyfriend. If she went too far away from the room, they could take Jess away. The Hartzkes had at least two houses, and a warehouse; she didn't have addresses for any of them. Jess had the car keys in his pocket, and all the money. She'd be stranded. How would she find him again? She was too scared to try anything else. Crying, she stumbled back to her own room. 

It was dark. When her eyes adjusted, the first thing she saw was that the dresser drawer was open. Jess was on the floor. A man was leaning over him, holding him down with a knee on his back. 

The man was in his late thirties. He had a narrow, rough face. He had blond hair. A high forehead. A long nose. Mainly, she saw his brown leather jacket. It was his jacket she noticed, that and the way he was looking at her. 

"Get your ass in here," said Maurice Emmell. "I've been waiting for you."   
  
  


~ * ~

To be continued . . .


	22. 22

_A/N: Thanks in advance for reading. A special thanks to **rubykate** for a last minute beta. And I think I'm going to dedicate this one to **Angeleyez**._

22.

Rory froze in the doorway, and the little ghost of possibility squeezed past her to flee across the parking lot. _We were going to make love_, she thought, and an ache blossomed in her throat. _We were going to be together. Tonight and forever._

Fear had propelled her up and down the row of motel rooms, shouting and banging on doors, but now that began to bleed away, replaced by weariness and something that wasn't entirely tangible, but was best summarized as a sense that she should have been expecting this. She and Jess should never have believed that they were going to be allowed to be free.

Jess groaned, pinned under the bigger man. They were between the foot of the bed and the chest of drawers, and Jess's face was mashed into the colorless carpet. Rory's resignation mutated to quick fury. "You!" she snarled at Maurice Emmell.

"Didn't you hear me?" The detective yanked Jess's wrists together with rough efficiency, handcuffing them at the small of Jess's back. "I told you to get in here."

"What?" She took a short step back. There were many things Rory found disturbing in this scenario, and not least among them was the fact that Jess's jeans had ridden down. She could see a pale stripe of skin between the black sweater and his belt. "I will not get in. You get _out_. This is our room!"

The expression of irritation on Maurice Emmell's face seemed to suggest he would have gladly throttled her, but Rory didn't care. The man had no business appearing in places he did not belong. _Like our bedroom!_ she thought.

"Get inside _now_," he ordered.

"This is _our_ room," she insisted. "We paid for it!"

Rory had spent the early part of her life at a pretty country inn, where a guest's comfort was sacrosanct. In her mind, staying at a cheap, urban motel was a little like going to a roadside kiosk and requesting a box of recycled privacy, but still—the room represented her space, and Jess's. It was the only space they had in the world that was their own. She was unwilling to relinquish it to the likes of Maurice Emmell.

The room was much as they'd left it, with the TV silent and the bathroom dark, and exuding the spiritual and maybe physical residue of previous inhabitants—although now the table was displaced, and the chair was on its side. Somebody had made up the bed, drawing the covers smooth and tight.

Rory flushed. She had been naked in that bed, in a place that didn't even offer a continental breakfast! It was sort of embarrassing. Nevertheless, she set her shoulders, prepared to insist that the detective remove himself forthwith. That was when things got really weird.

Jess lifted his chin and said, "It's going to be okay. Come inside."

Hesitantly, Rory advanced, uncertain she had heard him properly. "Excuse me?"

Maurice Emmell slid away from Jess, and got up into a crouch by the chest of drawers. Jess said, "It's all right, I'm all right." Awkwardly, he rolled on his side. Rory could see that he was finding it hard to sit up without the use of his hands. There was a sudden, sliding noise. Her heart fluttering, Rory jerked back. Maurice Emmell had shut the drawer she'd noticed earlier. Rory blinked in confusion, wondering why he was bothering to mess with it at a time like this.

Slowly, Jess got to his knees. His face was strained, and it was obvious that his wound was still giving him pain. "Don't try anything stupid," Maurice Emmell murmured.

Equally tonelessly, Jess replied, "Fuck you, asshole." He lifted his head and fixed on Rory. "Come on. It's going to be okay."

"Okay?" Rory repeated with a catch in her voice. "How-how can it possibly be okay?"

"I want you to come inside and close the door behind you." Jess glanced at Maurice Emmell. "Nobody is going to hurt you."

"Nobody-" Rory shook her head in disbelief. "Are you nuts?" Before the words were all the way out of her mouth, Maurice Emmell pounced.

"Jesus, no-!" Jess yelped.

Rory shrieked, sinking to the ground. Maurice Emmell, who had been grabbing for her hair, came away with a big handful of air. "You-little-" he grunted, trying to get a handhold on something.

"Get away from me!" Rory hollered, slapping at his hands. She shoved herself backwards with her heels. Now Maurice Emmell was framed in the doorway. Jess lurched to his feet.

"Don't!" Jess, with his arms locked behind him, came up behind Maurice Emmell. "Not like this!"

"Shut up!" Maurice Emmell turned and gave Jess a shove. Jess stumbled back into the room and sat down hard.

Rory scrambled to her feet. "Leave him alone!" She flew at the detective, swinging. He struck under her outstretched arm, getting the side of her rib cage. Rory doubled over and he swept her into the room.

He caught her upper arms and stuffed her beside the chest of drawers. "You bastard," she groaned, her cheek plastered to the wall.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Jess gasped, sounding incredulous.

Maurice Emmell squeezed Rory's arms. "On your knees. Put your hands on the back of your neck."

"What?" Twisting, Rory tried to pull away.

With heavy pressure, Maurice Emmell forced her to her knees. "Hands at the back of your neck!"

There was a quality to his voice, something official or cop-like that made her stop struggling and obey. Slowly, she put her hands to the back of her neck, pressing her forehead to the wall. Maurice Emmell left her kneeling with another harsh command: "Stay down!"

Rory could only see a tight square of motel room wall, but she was aware of it when he moved away. She heard him close and lock the door. After that, the room was dim, with the curtains drawn against the gloaming. "Oh, God," she whispered.

Trembling, her short breaths puffing off the wall and back into her face, Rory wondered how long she was expected to keep her hands clasped at the back of her neck. She wished Maurice Emmell would turn on a light—even light in the bathroom would do.

She could hear Jess breathing too. His mouth was open. She turned her head slightly to the right, not knowing if she was supposed to or not, but she wanted to get a look at Jess and make sure he was okay. She couldn't see around the chest of drawers.

There was movement on her other side, and the small commotion of abrupt sound. Startled, Rory risked a glance. Maurice Emmell was shoving the table into place in front of the window. He picked up the chair. He was slightly out of breath after the scuffle, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Rory watched as he bent to retrieve her copies of **_Winesburg, Ohio_** and **_Poems Penyeach_**, and Jess's copy of **_The Horse's Mouth_**.

It pissed Rory off to no account to see Maurice Emmell touching the books from which she and Jess had read aloud to each other; it was as much of a violation as if he had been putting his grubby paws all over their private love letters. She worried her lower lip with her teeth, hoping that Jess hadn't been underlining **_The Horse's Mouth_**. Maurice Emmell hardly deserved to be privy to the inner workings of Jess's mind.

Maurice Emmell rolled his eyes, piling the books on the table. "Oh, that's rich," Rory, blurted. There was a sharp intake of breath behind her, which she ignored.

_This is absurd_, Rory thought. _I'm not going to keep sitting here_. She dropped her arms and got to her feet. "I'm not going to keep sitting here," she announced.

"Uh," Jess said quickly. "How does sitting back down sound to you? 'Cause it sounds good to me."

"No. Why?" Rory waved a hand at Maurice Emmell. "So we can be stuck here for an interminable amount of time while yet another bozo holds us hostage? Forget it. I refuse. You refuse. We are not participating."

"I am not a bozo." Maurice Emmell sounded as though he were feeling affronted.

"Dude, she called it," Jess said with a sigh. He rotated his shoulders with a wince. "Learn to live."

On the far side of the table, the detective was mostly wrapped in shadow. He slid past the window, briefly backlit by the soft wash of residual daylight that was pushing around the edges of the curtain. "You can cooperate, or I can _make_ you cooperate." He positioned himself to block the door.

"Please sit down," Jess said, his voice sharp with concern.

"Look-" With a raised eyebrow, Rory held up her hands. "We're gonna sit this round out, okay?"

Maurice Emmell took a step toward her. "Get back on the floor."

Jess made a sound in the back of his throat and Rory looked over her shoulder. "I know what you're like when you're scared," he said, in a careful voice. He got up on his knees. "I _know_. But you're safe now. This is all going to be over really soon."

"You're handcuffed," she said flatly.

He put one foot on the floor. "Put yourself someplace calm. He doesn't want to hurt you."

"How do you figure that?" It came out breathier than she had intended. Gingerly, Rory fingered the sore spot on her side where Maurice Emmell had jabbed her.

"You might hurt _yourself_, fighting with him. Come sit over by me."

"No." Maurice Emmell's voice was stern. "I don't want you two together, hatching plans."

"Come _on_," Jess said with a groan. He was looking at Maurice Emmell now. "Just let me-I can control her."

Angered, Rory said, "Has it escaped your notice that you're _handcuffed?"_

"No," Jess said. "But-"

"I'm not going to tell you again," Maurice Emmell warned.

"Screw you." Rory put her hands on her hips. "And furthermore, if you find our choice of reading material so distasteful, you're free to leave."

"Kid, I have no idea what you're talking about." Maurice Emmell took another step forward.

Rory glared, but took a step back, not liking the way he was hulking over her. "Goodbye," she said pointedly, dismissing Maurice Emmell. "Thanks for coming."

"Knock it off," Jess said sharply.

"Listen to him," said Maurice Emmell.

"Are you still here?" Rory gestured with her chin. "There's the door."

Jess shot to his feet and Rory jumped, bumping the chest of drawers with her hip. _"Sit down,"_ he growled. _"Sit on the floor and be quiet!"_

The harsh tone of Jess's voice had tightened the skin over her cheeks, and Rory felt pressure building behind her nose. She retreated to her niche and knelt, once again facing the wall. _I am not going to cry_, she thought, wiping her eyes, but her shoulders were tight and she knew there was a strong possibility that she would. Belatedly, she returned her hands to the back of her neck. "You are a _patronizing_, sexist, chauvinist-"

"Don't call me a sexist pig!" Jess snorted in frustration. "You said it before. I didn't appreciate it then, and I don't appreciate it now."

"I never said 'pig,' she mumbled.

"You did _before_," Jess insisted.

"But I didn't just then," she argued.

"Christ! _Shut up_," he snapped, and humiliated, Rory bent her head. She heard the soft shuffle of his sneakers as he moved off.

"Took the wind out of _her_ sails," Maurice Emmell observed.

Jess sighed. "Just . . . don't leave her like that."

"It's temporary," said Maurice Emmell. There was a click, and a lamp brightened the gloom.

Two men in one small space—especially when one of the men was handcuffed and radiating anxiety—left the room close and stuffy. The bedside light was an unnatural yellow, and although she had wanted a light, Rory found it very irritating when throwing open the curtains would have let in at least a little of the red and blue-tinged remaining day.

She breathed in through her nose, and let the air out through her mouth. When she had challenged Maurice Emmell, partly she had been frightened, and partly she had been uncomfortable, but mainly she was unclear as to why whatever was going to happen had to unroll on Maurice Emmell's timetable. Once again she was finding herself in a situation where a person other than herself got to decide where she went and where she stayed, regardless of her wishes. Rory knew it had been a long shot—but she had been halfheartedly hoping that in the simple act of refusing to accept it, she would be spared captivity.

"I'm-I'm not going anywhere with you." She directed this tentative protest at Maurice Emmell, but at the same moment Jess spoke.

"She'll be fine," he said. "Let her come and sit by me."

"No."

"What the fuck difference does it make?"

"No. I said don't want you two together."

"But I'm the only one who can keep her from freaking out," Jess explained. "She _needs_ me."

"Maybe- " Rory heard Maurice Emmell's voice getting closer, and she tensed. "Maybe she should start getting used to the two of you being apart." Maurice Emmell prodded her in the back, and she shuddered.

"Don't touch her!" Jess barked.

"What's the big deal?" Maurice Emmell asked. He put his hand on the back of Rory's neck, covering her hands. Her chest constricted. There was a sound in her throat; she clamped her mouth over the sound and it hurt. She closed her eyes and squeezed her thighs together. There was so much dirtiness around her she couldn't open herself up, even a little. She couldn't take the chance that the dirtiness would get inside.

"Don't!" Jess begged.

_We were going to make love._ This time the thought came out of nowhere, and it made Rory stiffen in distaste. _We were going to make love in this sleazy place._

"Look," Jess said. "There is no way her family is letting you treat her like that."

"Her family just wants her back."

"Not like _this_. I don't know what your deal is, but you're behaving really unprofessionally. You can't rough her up and-"

"Actually-" The weight on the back of Rory's neck increased incrementally and then vanished, and Maurice Emmell moved away. "They gave me a lot of leeway."

Rory didn't need to look at Jess to know he was digesting that; she could tell by the lag before he responded, and the attitude of the thin, cautious shadow he was casting on the wall.

"I find that hard to believe," he said finally. "Those people treat her like she's the Last Scion, or something. They treat her like she's Margaret Bourke-White and one of those Kennedy-Shriver idiots rolled into one."

"And yet you took her away from all that," Maurice Emmell said. "Presented her with this incredible life of one-star motels and general flea-baggery."

Jess swore. "You're full of it. Her family-"

Maurice Emmell cut him off. "Her family thinks she's an embarrassment."

Rory gasped. "An-an embarrassment?" She felt a swirl of dizziness.

"An ugly, slutty little scandal that they want to sweep under the rug."

"Bullshit," Jess said derisively. "You're talking spectacular trash."

"Hey," Maurice Emmell said. "Eventually you get to a point where you've used up all your chances."

"More bullshit," Jess said.

"May-maybe it's true." Rory's eyes burned.

"Have it your way," Maurice Emmell said to Jess.

Rory blinked back tears. "I think it's probably true."

"It is _not_ true," Jess informed her. "And you know it. When I tell your mom what this creep has pulled-"

"I doubt the missus will be interested in anything you have to say," Maurice Emmell said to Jess. "And I _highly_ doubt you'll get near enough to try."

"Jesus," Jess groaned. "He must be talking about your _grandmother_."

Whether it was the mention of her grandmother, or the strain of her position, Rory, who had been hoping all along that Maurice Emmell would leave, began to wish that she were the one who was not present. Her whole body was sore. Her face felt hot, but in general she was cold and distant. Unaccountably, she began to feel drowsy.

Outside the door, not too far away, there was an ocean. She began to hear the swell of the waves, and wondered why she hadn't been hearing them all along. She could feel them. She was rocking. Her head dipped, until she was resting her forehead on her knees. Soon the moon would rise. The water would be black and indifferent, and there would be tides . . .

"You should be handling her with kid gloves," Jess said in a low voice. "God knows I do." The gentle waves halted, as abrupt as the screech of a vinyl LP. Rory started, shivering. She heard Jess swear under his breath. "I don't even care anymore, okay? If they've pressed charges, or whatever." He sounded tired.

"Oh," she whispered.

"That leeway I was talking about?" Maurice Emmell said. "They gave me a lot of it to deal with _you_."

"What?" said Jess.

_"What?"_ Rory sat up.

"They'd be happy never to see your face again," Maurice Emmell said.

Slowly, Jess said, "I guess . . . I'm sure they would."

"What are you talking about?" Rory turned to Maurice Emmell.

"Face the wall, Miss," Maurice Emmell said, without taking his eyes off Jess.

Her heart sped up. "But what are you talking about?"__

Jess frowned. "But I thought -" His voice trailed off, and he looked at Rory. His shoulders tensed, as if he had just remembered his hands and tried to pull them apart. "Handcuffs," he said slowly, and a pulse leapt in his neck. "You had handcuffs."

"The handcuffs were for _her_," Maurice Emmell said, and Rory went numb.

Jess blinked. "What did you say?" From a great distance, Rory looked from Jess to Maurice Emmell, and back again. Jess was standing very still, holding the older man's gaze. "That can't be true," he whispered. "Handcuffs—they would _never_ . . . I don't believe you."

"Thanks for keeping them for me." Maurice Emmell sounded sarcastic. "I would have hated to buy a new set." He lowered his chin. "On top of everything else."

Jess looked away first. "Shit."

"Where's my money?" the older man asked.

"Oh, that." Jess stared at the ceiling, his voice faint.

"Did you spend it?"

Rory tried to piece together her scattered wits. _Money_, she thought. _Okay_. It couldn't be the whole answer to the conundrum of Maurice Emmell—who he was and from whence he came—but maybe money could be the solution. She cleared her throat, and both men looked at her with surprise. They seemed to have forgotten she was there.

She held up a finger. "What if -?" She broke off, bleating out a small sound of confusion. She had mislaid the skein that wound her wooly thoughts together, and had to go look for it. "Oh, right," she said, blinking. "If we pay you back, will you go away?"

"We're flat broke," Jess said firmly.

Rory turned to face him, and sat back on her heels. "Oh-okay," she said cautiously, but she caught Jess's eye and mouthed,_ Why?_ Jess shook his head, and Rory could see that he was uncertain now too.__

With his arms cuffed behind his back, facing off against a much bigger man, Jess seemed small and worried. His mouth formed words he didn't articulate.__

_Can't you see-? _She mouthed.

_There's something I'm not getting, _she read in his face.

Rory rolled her eyes. _You think?_

The detective advanced on Jess, and Rory gasped in fright. "Oh, wait-!"

"Hey!" Jess protested, as Maurice Emmell shoved him down on his back. Jess struggled, but in the end could only look on helplessly as his front pockets were pulled out and emptied. The detective took his car keys. There was also some change and small bills, all of which Maurice Emmell kept.

Maurice Emmell flipped Jess on his stomach. Jess's eyes went wild with alarm. "Don't-!" he pleaded, tensing as Maurice Emmell eased something out of his back pocket.

Jess rolled away and sat up beside Rory. He was panting. Abruptly his breathing changed, and Rory glanced down in time to catch him do something swift and tricky with his hand. She thought he had just stuck something in his pocket. She looked away quickly, sure her face would betray them both, but Maurice Emmell was at that moment much more interested in the thing he held in his hand.

It was like she was on the outside, in the dark, in the rain, watching through a window. Maurice Emmell unfolded the thing he had taken from Jess, and Rory saw his eyes widen. He smoothed it out in his hand. There was another one underneath, and he switched it to the top and looked at that too.

Rory tried to tell herself that it was a cootie catcher, or that Jess had been dabbling in Origami. She tried to pretend that it was a wadded up, snotty Kleenex. It didn't work. She knew what it was.

A wisp of breath misted through her teeth. It shimmered in front of her face, forming a faint, tiny _"No,"_ before vanishing.

The detective looked down at Rory, and looked back at what was in his hand. He looked at Rory _again_, and this time she found his gaze knowing and foul. She blinked back tears, covering her breasts with her arms. "Juh-juh-juh-?" she stuttered, but she couldn't spit out her boyfriend's name.

"Stop looking at them!" Jess yelled, and Rory jumped. He sounded angrier than she'd ever heard him.

"Planning to start your own website?" Maurice Emmell sneered.

"Shut the fuck up," Jess spat.

"The quality sites use digital," the detective offered helpfully.

"Shut your fucking mouth."

"You need to get into it more, sweetheart." Maurice Emmell leered, and Rory's guts twisted.

Kneeling on the floor at the detective's feet, she stared up at him thinking that he was despicable. He shouldn't be looking, and he especially shouldn't be looking like _that_. It was like stealing—with his eyes he was slicing off bits of her and keeping them for himself.

Once, a long time ago, she had been a person of character. Good. Intelligent and nice. Pretty. That would have been the capsule bio, or snapshot as it were, of Rory Gilmore. Not to mention promising. She had been a very promising girl. Now, none of that mattered. Looking at the detective, she knew that his interpretation was not that those Polaroids were an example of something that had been done to her. They were indicative of what she _was_. The worst part of it was that because the photos _existed_, it was evident that he felt entitled to look at them, and to smirk and think dark, tangled thoughts about her.

Rory wanted to stand up, and take those photos from him. They were of her—didn't that mean they were hers? If she stood up and insisted that he give them back, would he do it?

For a moment, she thought she really was going to do that. She had a vision of herself standing and removing the Polaroid pictures from his hand, but right after that she had vision where he refused to hand them over, and she began to feel so lost, and more helpless than she had ever felt in her life. She knew that an essential aspect of her person had just been siphoned off into a whirling vortex. _Now_ _I'm a made up girl_, she thought. _My hand would pass right through him._

"Next time he gets you to model, try to be more . . . _energetic_."

"Oh," she moaned, and felt sick. She dragged herself to her feet, her head swimming. She turned on her heel, and in the mirror caught a glimpse of a hollow-eyed, messy-haired girl. _I don't know her,_ she thought. _That's not me I don't know who that is_. She made unsteadily for the bathroom, each dragging step a terrific effort—for she was underwater and had to pull her ankles free of the seaweed. She fell to her knees in front of the toilet.

Jess let out an enraged howl. "You fucking fuck mother-fuck!"

Rory gathered her hair and held it back from her face. Her stomach contracted, and she vomited. Maurice Emmell laughed, and Rory heard Jess behind her in the doorway. "I was going to burn them, I swear." A faint sheen of bedroom light was reflected on the wall over the toilet. From the way the light was moving, Rory could tell that Jess was shifting from foot to foot. "I couldn't do it at . . . where we were before." He entered the bathroom. "Because of the smell."

"I don't want you to burn them," Rory said indistinctly, and threw up again.

"Before, on the road, I know we went to eat and all—but I was thinking we shouldn't stop. But I meant to." Jess nudged her in the back, and she made a noise and shied away.

"I don't want you to burn them! That's my evidence right there!" Her voice cracked, and she started to cry.

"Please-"

"How could you let him _look?_" she wailed.

"Oh, God," Jess moaned.

"Don't look at me!" She leaned over the toilet, shuddering. Jess nudged her again, and Rory cried out, "Don't ever look at me! Don't touch me!"

Jess swore under his breath. He disappeared into the bedroom. "What are you going to do?" Rory heard him ask Maurice Emmell. There was no immediate response, and sounding panicked, Jess repeated, _"What are you going to do?"_

Rory was the one who didn't know what to do. She wanted to sink to the bottom of the ocean and do _nothing_. She didn't care what happened next, but it seemed awfully cold and lonely to stay all by herself in the dark motel bathroom.

Slowly, clumsily, she turned around, and crawled into the bedroom on her hands and knees. Jess lowered himself beside her, with his back against the chest of drawers. Rory settled on her side, with her head in Jess's lap. It wasn't so bad. It wasn't so bad to be touching him. His hands were locked up, and he couldn't touch her. "There are pictures of me," she said dully.

"You knew they had pictures," Jess said. "Now I have the pictures."

"No, now I have the pictures," said Maurice Emmell.

Jess tensed. "What? You can't show those to her family!"

"I wonder what dear old dad would make of this?" Maurice Emmell asked. "Kinky photos of his precious little girl, recovered from the pocket of her bad news boyfriend. You couldn't get out from behind that hammer if you had wings on your shoes."

Rory stared at him blankly. What was he on about now? Maurice Emmell wasn't making sense. He didn't seem to be _capable_ of making sense. Her father? What did her father have to do with anything?

Her father had missed everything, all the big moments. He had missed her first tooth, her first lost tooth, the school pageants, the A report cards. Christopher had never taken her trick-or-treating, or been in front of the tree on Christmas morning. He hadn't been there the first time she dressed for dinner, with her hair up and lipstick, tottering in heels. If anybody had hired a detective to track her down, it sure wasn't _Christopher._

Her cheek pressed to Jess's thigh, she whispered, "This is a big misunderstanding."

"I did not take nude photos of my girlfriend!" Jess's voice was white hot.

"Explain it to the judge," Maurice Emmell said with a shrug, and Jess made a bleak sound and hung his head.

Rory swallowed, remembering what Jess had said in the woods. _At the end of it, I might go to jail._

"I don't give a fuck about these pictures," Maurice Emmell said. "They're too complicated." He prodded Jess in the hip with his foot. Rory sat up so Jess could sit up, and Maurice Emmell stuffed the pictures in Jess's back pocket. "There, you little pervert. Happy?"

"I'm so sorry," Jess whispered. He wouldn't meet her eyes. "I'd give anything for none of this to have happened."

"Right about now," she said into his ear, "I'm thinking those pictures might be the least of your worries."

"She's right," Maurice Emmell affirmed. "Pressing worries would be the money you owe me. Or my custom tires."

Jess groaned in frustration. "Have you ever heard of a business expense? Invoice the family!"

"Oh, Jess," Rory said under her breath, and bowed her head.

-

Maurice Emmell pulled Jess to his feet and shoved him in the direction of the bed. Jess stumbled, his sneakers catching on the carpet. He went down on one knee. Over his shoulder he said, "Lay off, would you? Jeez."

Maurice Emmell reached for Rory's arm and Rory, emptier and less animate than Coppelia, let him draw her up. "Sit at the foot of the bed," he said to Jess.

"What do you think I'm going to do?" Jess demanded. "Seriously—tell me. I'm _handcuffed_."

"I think you're gonna sit at the foot of the bed like I told you to." He paused, his hand clamped around Rory's upper arm. "You get that I've got the girl, and if _you_ give me grief-"

"I know the drill," Jess said, through gritted teeth.

Maurice Emmell pushed Rory in front of him, heading for the bathroom. Distantly, she knew she should tell him to remove his hand from the small of her back, but there was a spongy layer of apathy insulating her. She didn't care to resist him—by then she wasn't caring about much. He felt along the inside wall. The light spluttered and burst to life, humming.

The detective shoved her into the bathroom. Without meaning to, Rory looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. The reflection waved at her, and Rory's eyes bugged out. She turned away in a hurry, squeezing in beside the toilet.

A voice came from the mirror. "Yoo-hoo!" Rory's shoulders shot up.

"What?" she hissed out of the corner of her mouth.

The detective looked at her strangely. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing," said Rory quickly.

The voice spoke again. "Tri-colored fusilli salad."

Not wanting to encourage it, Rory pretended she hadn't heard. She watched out of the corner of her eye as Maurice Emmell collected her old blouse and tights. It seemed like a very long time since she had rinsed her things and left them to drip dry on the shower rod. Uneasy, and hoping the mirror wouldn't say anything else, she considered asking Maurice Emmell what he was up to but decided against it; she was too disheartened to demand whether in addition to being an incompetent detective, he was also a transvestite.

It took her a second to realize that her bra and panties were there, the red hearts jarringly cheerful in the fluorescent light. She found then that she did care about something—she cared about her underwear. With high color in her cheeks, she hoped he wasn't going to take down her underwear, and touch it, and when he didn't she breathed out a sigh of relief, leaning back against the bathroom wall. She crossed her arms over her waist. _What is your story?_ she wondered, recognizing that it was going to be necessary for her to find a way to start _thinking_.

She sucked her lower lip between her teeth, mulling over the problem of Maurice Emmell. She couldn't believe that her family had hired him. No emissary of the Gilmore clan would answer to Christopher Haden. Her grandparents were wealthy and powerful. They would have handled such a thing themselves, or better yet, had one of their people do it; maybe they _had_, and their detective just hadn't found her yet. After all, her grandfather was in insurance.

The tri-colored fusilli salad! Rory gasped, turning back to the mirror. The reflection swam to the surface to meet her, matching her movements perfectly. It had nothing else to add. Rory tapped her foot nervously. She frowned at the mirror, narrowing her eyes in concentration.

Rory wasn't especially knowledgeable about the insurance business, but she recalled a rainy, long-ago afternoon, spent in the company of Sookie. Installed on Sookie's squishy sofa and gorging herself on bite-size brownies, Rory had paged through some of Sookie's many mystery novels. Sookie had stacks of them. There were stories featuring cats that solved mysteries, and stories of private investigators that sang opera. Rory had been amused to discover there was an entire sub-genre devoted to crime-solving _caterers_; those books had recipes. Sookie was generally critical of the recipes . . . although she had adopted a _tri-colored fusilli salad_.

The pasta salad her entry into the memory, Rory brought to the forefront of her mind one novel in particular, as she stood in the bathroom with real-life detective Maurice Emmell. Before Sookie had taken the book away from her—Sookie said it was too violent—Rory had learned that the main character was a female detective who investigated insurance fraud. So her grandfather probably had his own detectives.

She cleared her throat. "Do-do you investigate insurance claims?" she asked Maurice Emmell. He ignored her. He held her blouse up, turning it around in his hands. She sighed. "Fine. Be that way."

While her grandparents had great affection for Christopher, they never would have charged him with the responsibility of recovering their only granddaughter—even if their granddaughter was an ugly slut and they didn't love her anymore. _Stop it_, she told herself sternly.

Maurice Emmell ripped the sleeves off her blouse. "Hey," she protested listlessly. "That's my shirt."

"What's going on?" Jess called.

"He just ruined my shirt," Rory reported. "And now . . . yes, I believe he's going to tear apart my tights, too."

Jess swore. "What—the tights you're _wearing_?"

"No, the black ones," she explained.

"Is he or is he not tearing off your clothes? Answer me!"

"No," she said. "The other ones. The clothes I was wearing _before_."

"Mother Mary," Jess groaned.

"Sorry," Rory said after a moment. "I should have been more specific."

"Be specific at all times," Jess said sternly.

Rory raised an eyebrow. "We'll see," she said to her boyfriend, the prevaricator.

"Come on." Maurice Emmell took her arm and thrust her back into the bedroom. Jess looked up at her with an expression of intense relief, and Rory was abashed. She gave him an apologetic half-smile. Then Maurice Emmell told her to put her hands behind her back, and she forgot how to breathe.

"Wait, wait," Jess said hastily. "That's not necessary."

"I seem to recall that she's a runner."

"She won't go anywhere," Jess promised. "Baby, come here. Come sit beside me." Rory backed into the wall, looking at Jess, looking at Maurice Emmell. Her heart was thudding erratically, and if the two of them didn't leave her alone, she was going to start a never-ending scream that would blast out their eardrums.

Maurice Emmell reached for her arm. She stiffened, and Jess swore. "I don't understand what your deal is, asshole." He let out a hard breath. "Listen—she is very, very fragile."

"Fragile my ass," Emmell said.

"You don't want to hurt her, do you?"

"I don't want to _chase_ her. I also don't want her scratching my eyes out."

"Oh, as if," Rory gasped, managing to summon the presence of mind to be offended.

"Wait," Jess pleaded. "Just . . . wait." Slowly he got to his feet. "She's faint. If she falls, she could hit her head."

"Whatever you're gonna do," Maurice Emmell said, "do it quick." He sounded uncomfortable.

Jess stepped in front of Rory, blocking her from Maurice Emmell. "Put your arms around my neck." He bent so he could touch her forehead with his own. "Snap out of it," he hissed. "You are not helpless!"

Jess had spent so much time recently indicating that he _did_ think she was helpless, that the words were as startling as a splash of cold water. Rory raised her chin, her forehead wrinkling in surprise.

"I'm going to help you to the bed," Jess said in a loud voice. He gave her a significant look. Rory darted a glance at Maurice Emmell. She could see the detective over Jess's shoulder. He seemed undecided. Tie the girl, don't tie the girl—what to do, what to do?

Jess bumped her nose with his own, recapturing her attention. What was he up to? Was Jess trying to tell her he wanted Maurice Emmell to think she was ready to collapse? She _was_ ready to collapse. Did he want the detective to think that she was an emotional train wreck waiting to happen? Rory looked deep in his eyes, and she thought that was what he was trying to say.

_Distract Maurice Emmell_. Rory's eyes widened, and she gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod. Jess had a plan. He had a plan! Jess had a plan, and he had given her a mission—immediately she felt better. Distract Maurice Emmell so he wouldn't be focused on Jess. Well, that wasn't going to be a problem. She was _absolutely_ an emotional train wreck waiting to happen. She was a fricking Shinkansen Bullet Train, full of Japanese businessmen.

Rory threw her arms around her boyfriend's neck, and let out a pathetic moan. She buried her face in his chest. "What the hell is wrong with her?" asked Maurice Emmell.

"Jesus Christ!" Jess snapped. "Can't you see she's frightened?" He shuffled to the bed, drawing her along with him. "Get on the bed."

Rory crawled onto the mattress and curled into a tight ball. She groaned loudly.

"I'm still tying her up," Maurice Emmell grumbled. "Last time, I had to chase her all over a _field_."

"No, don't!" Jess said quickly. "This is a very delicate girl here. You could hurt her."

_Tell him I have epilepsy_, Rory thought._ Or–_

"She has a heart murmur," Jess said, and Rory was glad she was turned away, because she almost laughed.

"What the fuck do I care?" said Maurice Emmell. "She can still have a heart murmur with her hands tied behind a chair."

_"Don't let him hurt me!"_ Rory cried, cowering on the bed. She started to breathe heavily.

"Nobody said anything about her having a condition," Maurice Emmell objected, and Rory was genuinely interested to hear what Jess would come up with to counter that.

"Who broadcasts heart trouble?" Jess supplied smoothly. "She can't be scared or startled or manhandled in any way. Everybody would know that all they had to do was jump out at her and yell 'Boo!'"

"Shouldn't she be taking something?" Maurice Emmell asked, sounding suspicious.

"She's had a series of small surgeries but you can't really medicate it." Even though she knew Jess was adept at the art of lying, Rory had to admit she was impressed by the way he was pulling all this out of his ass. It was a stupid story, but it was having the effect of throwing Maurice Emmell off-balance, and she knew that was Jess's intent. She had to bite back a smile as he added, "She tries very hard to lead a normal life."

"This is irrelevant," the detective said. "I'm gonna secure her anyway."

Rory didn't have to pretend to be frightened. She moaned pitifully, and Jess snapped, "She might hyperventilate, you jerk! She could have a heart attack!"

_And whatever he wants, I'm no use to him dead_, Rory thought.

"She could die, you stupid shit!"

"Fuck," said Maurice Emmell. Rory heard him kick something. She thought it must have been the chest of drawers. "_Fine._ But if she tries to run, not only am I going to beat the crap out of _you_, she's going face down on that mattress, _spread-eagle_, and I'm telling you, not only won't it be comfortable, but if she wants to worry about _breathing_, well, that won't be a good position for _that_."

Jess landed on his ass beside her, and Rory bounced. She dug her fingers into the mattress to keep from rolling off the bed. Jess looked down at her. He seemed frustrated—something hadn't gone according to plan. She realized Maurice Emmell must have shoved Jess back on the bed. She frowned. Why was that a problem? She wished she knew what the plan _was_.

Maurice Emmell dropped heavily into the chair under the front window. Rory could see that Jess, who was on that side of the bed, was watching him carefully. She saw Maurice Emmell put his head in his hands. He sighed. Rory huddled on the bed, and Jess was miraculously quiet.

"Heart murmur," Maurice Emmell said.

"Her parents were first cousins," Jess offered, lying through his teeth.

"Rich people." Maurice Emmell's voice dripped contempt.

"I hear you," Jess said.

-

They sat in silence, the three of them, as the world outside grew dark and quiet. Rory was alert to the small sounds the men made—the crinkle of the detective's leather jacket, the faint chink of the handcuff chain. With nothing else to do, she found herself reflecting that even in the small interludes between their operatic clashes, men were complicated creatures. Maybe these two weren't engaged in overt chest-thumping now, but she still had to gauge their moods carefully, in the manner one would keep a watchful eye on the instrument panel of a nuclear reactor. It wasn't so much that she felt she had to intervene to prevent a meltdown—she had no faith in her ability to do that—it was more that she wanted to know when to take cover.

She wrapped her arms around herself. Jess's back was to her, and she saw him open and close his hands. Rory knew what it was like to be tied up and unable to change position or scratch. It was such a simple thing, the lowly scratch. A person never felt the burning necessity of scratching until they were prevented from doing so. She felt a twinge of sympathy. Jess's wrists came together in a sharp triangle point at his butt; probably his arms were falling asleep. He cleared his throat. "Fine. You got us. What now?"

Maurice Emmell looked up. "What?"

"It's an endgame worthy of Kasparov. The crowd goes wild. You _win_."

"You're a snarky little shit," the detective observed. "No wonder everybody hates you."

"I was just asking what comes next." Jess worked his shoulders, trying an abbreviated stretch.

"Only a girl would fall for your act." Maurice Emmell stretched with a yawn, and scratched the back of his neck. "You hear what I'm saying?" he asked Rory, who was yawning into her hand because she'd had to yawn when he yawned. "Only a girl would buy this. I bet you think he's misunderstood."

"_Don't_ talk to her," Jess said.

"I bet you think you can change him," Maurice Emmell said.

"Fuck," Jess sighed in disgust. "How did you track us down, anyhow?"

"Phone book," Maurice Emmell said shortly. "How do you think?"

Irritably, Jess said, "If I knew I wouldn't be asking."

"Why? So next time you know what to avoid?"

"Humor me."

The detective reached into the pocket of his jacket and produced a cell phone. He showed it to Jess, as if that explained everything. "Uh, okay." Jess tilted his head to the side. "You've got a phone. Big deal."

"First I called for a tow," Maurice Emmell said in a low voice. Rory tensed, wondering if the whole you-fucked-with-my-car thing was going to start up again. She remembered how angry Dean had been when Jess totaled _her _car. She decided that when she got the chance she'd have a word with Jess about his track record with cars. It would probably be in his best interest to avoid them entirely, and start taking the bus. Maurice Emmell continued: "Then I got a phone book—several phone books—and started calling."

"Calling who?" Jess asked.

"Motels, dipshit. By that point, you had money. My money."

"It wasn't that much money," Jess said.

"It was _mine_. You took it out of my wallet." Maurice Emmell leaned forward. "Where is _your_ wallet?"

"I don't carry one," Jess lied.

"So it's in the car? I'll look in a minute."

Jess sighed. "Jeez."

"It's getting dark now," Maurice Emmell said vaguely, glancing at the window. He checked his watch. "Detective work . . . it's mostly scut work." Warming to the subject, he leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs at the ankle. "People have this thing where they think it's so glamorous. Most of the time, they come in with a question I know I can answer fifteen minutes after turning on my computer."

"Huh," Jess said. Rory knew him well enough to hear in that one sound that even though he had started it, he was impatient with the conversation. "Fifteen minutes."

"Okay—here's the thing. People are _lazy_. And they don't know how to do research."

"I bet," said Jess, sounding profoundly disinterested.

"You'd be surprised," the detective said.

_Oh, go talk shop at a convention_, Rory thought sourly. She was tired of lying around, and wanted Jess to put part two of his plan into action. Whatever the heck it was.

"I called and described you two. Eventually, I was informed by this fine establishment that they had a young man registered who might have been you-"

"What about privacy?" Jess interrupted. "They just told you that?"

Maurice Emmell's upper lip curled into an unpleasant smile. "You'd be surprised how much co-operation you get when you use the magic words. And in this case the magic words were _'underage girl.'_"

Jess swore, and the older man snickered. "Yeah, you are fucked—past, present, future. Sexual predator."

"Go to hell." Jess stared at the detective. Maurice Emmell stared back. Like lower order animals, they were challenging each other.

"Every town you move into for the rest of your life. I hope she was worth it."

"Watch your mouth," Jess said, his voice like gravel.

Afraid for Jess, who was handcuffed and defenseless, Rory put a soft hand on his back. "Don't listen to that. None of that will happen."

Jess hung his head. "I hope you're right."

Rory sat up and put her arms around him, pressing her cheek to his back. "It _won't_."

"_Anyway_," Maurice Emmell said. "The guy at the desk said you'd registered as . . . what did you put? Ah, right—Jurgis Rudkus. Nice name. But I also had your plates, so-" He shrugged.

Rory poked Jess with the tip of her finger. "Jurgis Rudkus! How could you?"

Jess turned on the bed, so that he was facing her. "Oh, hey-"

"But that makes _me_ Ona Rudkus! And she ends up-"

"I know," he said softly. "It's one long tale of woe. Just when you think things couldn't get any worse, something else bad happens." He heaved a sigh, rotating his head with a grimace. His neck cracked. "It just sort of . . . happened. The guy was watching TV and I was thinking, 'If only he doesn't decide he has to examine me too closely,' and he _didn't_, he didn't even ask for my license." Jess used his shoulder to scratch his chin. "It was only on my mind because I was reading it before we left-"

Rory shrugged, and was getting ready to let it slide, when Jess lifted his head and gave her an odd, tentative smile. "But at least in that scenario, we were a married couple."

She was shocked. "You-you were pretending we were married?"

"Ah-" Jess sat back. He seemed nervous, which gave Rory the impression that he felt maybe he had taken a wrong turn into this moment. "I think I was . . . wishing . . . I don't know. I guess I was just—I wanted to feel like maybe I had the right to-to-" He broke off, ducking his head. "Dammit. Don't make me say schmaltzy shit in front of _him_. It's not fair."

Her eyes were huge. She would never in a million years have expected him to say such a thing. Faint color had spilled into his cheeks, and he seemed so vulnerable. It was almost as if he expected her to laugh and tell him, _Oh, I would never marry_ _you_.

_I shut my eyes_, she thought, _and all the world drops dead._

With a gentle hand, Rory lifted his chin. She wanted to wrestle him down on the motel bed and plant a thousand kisses on his lips. The air was so strange between them, moist and dense, and in his eyes she saw mirrored the frustration she had been experiencing off and on since Maurice Emmell had interrupted what was supposed to be their last and most important night together. She pressed her lips together, lowering her chin. _We have to ditch this joker._

_I know!_ He made a face. _Believe me, I'm working on it._

Jess turned to Maurice Emmell. "What now?"

"She's going to have a little chat with her father."

"My father!" Rory said. _"God."_

"Her _father_." Jess made a sound. He glanced back at Rory and his face was sad. "Fine. Get it over with."

"What?" Rory gasped.

"I'm not going to leave you alone with him," Jess assured her. "I'll supervise the whole thing."

Rory opened and closed her mouth. "The-the whole _what_?"

Maurice Emmell nodded at Rory. "I don't know about you," he said sardonically, "but that makes me feel _a whole lot better_."

"Christ!" Jess snapped. "Could you at least _try_ not to upset her?"

"But-" _What about the plan?!_ Rory gaped at her boyfriend, totally bewildered. And then she understood. There was no plan. It had all been a scam, a fake promise of escape, to manage and coddle her.

Oh—she understood all right, the way Jess had been behaving, carefully watching and waiting for Maurice Emmell to make his move. Getting rid of Maurice Emmell meant something different to Jess than it did to her. She wanted to be rid of the stupid detective so that she and Jess could be alone, but Jess saw the man as a stepping-stone. They would be rid of Maurice Emmell when Jess turned her over to her family.

"I'll be right there," he promised.

"As opposed to _where?_" she breathed. "Where did you think you were going to go?"

His face drawn, he looked away. "I'm not going anywhere."

To say she was experiencing a sense of loss would have been inadequate. 'Bereft' was in the neighborhood. If she'd had a little cuckoo clock door in her chest, she could have opened it up and shown everyone the barren, wintry landscape where her heart should have been. She felt _forsaken_. "You-you want it to be _over,_" she said.

"No-!" His voice was strangled.

"It's what you've been saying all along." She covered her face with her hands. She couldn't believe that moments before, Jess had held her in his eyes as hungrily as Orpheus beheld Eurydice, while they breathed each other's warm breath, their automatic nervous systems demonstrating an interdependence unheard of outside of a Lionel Ritchie ballad. She felt so _stupid_. He wanted to forget the whole thing! "Well, fine." She swallowed a sob. "It's what you wanted."

His voice rough, Jess said, "You know that is _not_ what I wanted."

"Yay for you." Her hands muffled her words. "You get to be rid of me."

"I never wanted it to end like this-"

She looked up at him, her eyes glistening. "I can't believe you're dumping me."

"Oh, God—do it," Jess said to Maurice Emmell. "I just want her to get home safely."

"You really are going to leave me," she whispered. "I-I can't believe it's true."

"Make the fucking call!"

Maurice Emmell got to his feet. "It's going to be more of an indirect communication." He lifted a corner of the curtain and peered outside.

"Oh, why is he even involved?" Rory moaned.

"Who?" The detective changed his stance, scanning the parking lot from a different angle.

"My father!"

"Just make the call!" Jess begged.

Frowning, Maurice Emmell turned away from the window. "Why wouldn't he be?" He circled the bed to stand over Rory. "Why wouldn't your father be involved?"

"Take her home!" Jess cried. "Throw me in jail! I don't fucking care!"

Maurice Emmell blocked the bathroom light, throwing a cold shadow. He leaned over the bed. "Tanya?"

Rory raised her head to stare at the man. Her mouth fell open. The ocean rushed up between her ears, and all evidence of her boyfriend's pain faded before the onslaught of the waves.

-

**_To be continued_**


	23. 23

_A/N: With thanks to **rubykate** for beta reading, and** Angeleyez** for consulting on a beta issue. _

23.

Dazed, Rory got up from the bed. She bumped into Maurice Emmell and in her distraction murmured, "Oh, excuse me."

"Where do you think you're going?"

She tripped over Jess's feet. "Sorry," she said, her own voice distant in her ears.

"Hey," Jess said. "Where-?"

Maurice Emmell caught her upper arm. "I want to hear more about your father."

"_Let go_." Rory pulled away. She wandered toward the front of the room, rubbing her chin. "This is so, so crazy," she mumbled. "God. I _knew_ it."

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Maurice Emmell snapped.

"Come back here," Jess said.

Rory took a deep, fortifying breath, and turned to confront the two men. Her boyfriend was staring at her from the foot of the bed, his torso oddly tapered with his arms locked behind his back. Maurice Emmell stood stiffly, hulking over Jess.

"Huh." Rory scratched her head. "Well—this is silly. Look, we can settle this with one phone call."

"Settle _what?"_ said Maurice Emmell.

"Let's call, okay?" She glanced at the motel phone, remembering what Jess had explained. For some reason, they couldn't call out. She held out her hand, expecting Maurice Emmell to give her his cell phone. "What's the number?"

"What's this?" He took a step toward her, and Jess shot the detective a nervous glance.

Rory frowned. "Look, I can't believe you could make such a stupid mistake, but you did. You've got the wrong girl."

Jess's eyes widened. "Give it up."

She looked at him in surprise. "What?"

"It's not going to work." He inched forward on the bed, resting his weight on his legs in preparation to stand. "And I _really_ don't want you to get hurt. Come sit down."

"But-but-" Rory looked from Jess to the detective and back again. She was somewhat amazed that the nature of the dilemma hadn't become immediately apparent to them as well. Stone-faced and shadowy in the dim, yellow light, the men seemed inflexible, and kind of obtuse. Rory felt an intense wave of fatigue. She pointed at Maurice Emmell. "He-"

"Why are you keeping this up?" he interrupted.

"But I'm right!" Rory insisted. "Both of you are wrong."

"I told you," Jess said to Maurice Emmell. "She's so fragile. Let me handle this."

"No!" Rory groaned. "I'm not being crazy! I know sometimes I kind of am, but I'm not now!"

"What _is_ this?" Maurice Emmell asked Jess.

"I don't know," Jess said. "She sort of fades in and out."

Maurice Emmell rubbed his temples. "Gah-this is irritating."

"Cut her some slack," Jess said. "She's sick, that's all."

"I am _not_ sick," said Rory.

"Baby, it's _okay_. It's not your fault."

Maybe it was because Rory didn't seem to be set on leaving, but the detective relaxed, putting his hands in his pockets. "They just said she was acting up."

"Acting up?" Jess seemed taken aback.

Rory wasn't at all happy with the way they were talking over her, or with the fact that her boyfriend was having a discussion about her behavior with the man who was holding them prisoner. She put her hands in her hair, pulling in frustration. "God! It's like I turned a corner and ended up in Oz!" She pointed at Maurice Emmell. "And _you_ were there." She then pointed to Jess. "And _you_ were there-" She let her voice trail off, seeing that they weren't receptive to her film reference, and she wasn't helping her case any.

"You have to calm down now," Jess said firmly.

Rory blinked at her boyfriend, feeling an upsurge of panic. Why wouldn't he _listen_? She focused on the detective, holding her hands up carefully, as if she were a police negotiator trying to talk to someone unpredictable—like a jumper on a ledge. "You have made a mistake," she said, enunciating very clearly. "You have let us go now."

Maurice Emmell snorted. "Fat chance."

"Actually, this is our room," Rory reminded him. "You should be the one to go."

"I've made a mistake?" Maurice Emmell pushed past her, heading for the books on the table. He discarded **_The Horse's Mouth_**, but opened **_Poems Penyeach_**, and showed her the name written inside the front cover. _Tanya Kilpatrick_. He opened **_Winesburg, Ohio_**, and thrust it in her face. _Tanya Kilpatrick_. "You can knock this shit off. Don't be pretending you're not who you are."

"Heavens to Murgatroid." Rory's voice was small. "Did-did you ever look in the front covers?" she asked Jess.

"No," he said. "Why?"

Maurice Emmell shook a finger in her face. "I know who you are. _You_ know who you are. Don't think you can pull this multiple personality shit and confuse me."

"Multiple-? I-I'm not trying to _confuse_ you," she said. "I'm just trying to _explain-_"

"Show me your ID. Where is it?"

Rory's stomach lurched. "Oh! I don't even have any." Anxiously, she looked for Jess. "I-I was _driving_. I don't even have my license with me!"

"Baby, can we worry about that later?"

"Oh, please," Rory said to Maurice Emmell. "Can't we just make the call?" She stared at him, and her already nervous stomach tightened a little more. "Why-why don't you want to call?"

He didn't answer.

"Wha-what's-" Rory stuttered. "What's with . . . you said it was going to be an indirect communication. Why? Why is that?"

The detective was impassive, dwarfing her. He made her feel like she was six. "Your heart murmur seems better," he observed. "But you're a little space-case. And you won't sit still. I think I am going to tie you now." He took her by the shoulder.

"Wait!" Jess said sharply.

Maurice Emmell shoved Rory to the chest of drawers, bending her over with a heavy hand. He caught her wrists and pulled them behind her back. Panicking, she cried out, "_No!_"

"Wait," Jess said. "Wait! Jesus! Let her . . . let her go to the bathroom first!"

"Bathroom?" said Maurice Emmell.

"Buh-bathroom?" Rory lifted her head.

"It will be unpleasant for us all if she pisses herself," Jess said crudely, and Rory cringed. She was completely appalled.

"Make it snappy," Maurice Emmell said, swatting her on the ass. Rory jumped, yelping, and scuttled into the john. She shut the door and locked it, dropping to her knees on the cool tile.

Alternately hot and cold, Rory struggled to pull herself together. She was shaking so hard she nearly bit her tongue. _Bathroom. Okay._ She pulled in a breath through both nostrils, trying to imitate a sound she once heard Madonna make on a talk show. Madonna had been demonstrating Ujjayi breathing. Rory snorted, sputtering. Madonna was such a poser. _Bathroom. Okay._ Jess had sent her to the bathroom. He could have accomplished it with more _finesse_, but he must have had a reason. What was it? Had he intended it to be a refuge? Was she supposed to refuse to come out?

Rory knew from recent events that really, bathrooms weren't all that secure. Locking herself in one simply meant that the bad guy knew precisely where she was. In any event, there was no way she could barricade herself in this bathroom for long. There was no window to climb out of, nothing to shove in front of the door. Facing the toilet, the tub was to her right, the counter to the left. The toilet itself was opposite the door. There was nothing remarkable about the bathroom. Maurice Emmell had broken into their _room_. He could certainly find his way into the bathroom. Jess had done it in less time than it took to sing a Buddy Holly song.

She experienced a dizzying flash of emotion. It was one thing to have Maurice Emmell dismiss her, but to have Jess behave as if it were impossible that she could have something of value to say . . . it left her feeling very upset and helpless. _I guess this is what happens when people think you're crazy_, she thought. _It's so unfair!_

She shook it off. She didn't have time to be angry at Jess right now.

What did Jess want her to do in the bathroom? Was she supposed to get something? Was there anything to get? Rory tucked her hair behind her ear, considering her options. If she threw shampoo at Maurice Emmell she could temporarily blind him, and steal his handcuff keys. If Maurice Emmell was really, really obliging, and stood still to let her do it, she could stuff a towel down his throat. While he was trying to pull it out, _then_ she could steal his handcuff keys.

She could . . . slowly, Rory got to her feet. The disposable razor was on the counter, lying in a smudge of dried stubble. Could she cut him? Rory shivered. She couldn't do that!

Rory ran her finger around the lip of the sink. There were tiny hairs, Jess's hair. _Maid, please make up our room_, she thought. Apart from the weasel-guy at the front desk, whom Rory imagined as perpetually watching TV, did nobody work in this motel? Where was the cleaning staff? How could Maurice Emmell move into their room—and nobody notice? She had a stab of stomach pain as she thought of all the people who worked for her mother at the Independence Inn. Wasn't there a single person at the Sea View Motel who might perchance notice that her boyfriend was in _handcuffs?_

Rory clutched the edge of the sink. She found it hard to believe that Jess wanted her to attack Maurice Emmell. Jess would never entertain the notion that she was _capable_ of attacking Maurice Emmell. As Rory best understood it, the encyclopedia entry in Jess's mind that was labeled "Rory" featured an exotic but rather wilted hothouse flower. Nevertheless, she put the razor in the pocket of her jumper. It was something.

Rory crouched to look under the sink, hoping Jess had stashed something useful there—a cell phone programmed with 911 would be right up her alley—but there was nothing, just the exposed sink pipes. On either side of the pipes there were the faux cupboards, one of which had an inset metal Kleenex dispenser. She put her fingers in the slot of the dispenser, but there wasn't even a box of Kleenex. At a loss, she rubbed her eyes. Maybe Jess had merely wanted to give her the opportunity to use the facilities. She decided to brush her teeth.

She was bent over the sink when she heard the men talking. Her mouth full of toothpaste froth, the toothbrush dangling from her lower lip like a cigarillo, she pressed her ear to the door. She heard Jess say, "Mayo Clinic," and suppressed a smile; evidently he was running his heart murmur shtick again.

Maurice Emmell responded with "bullshit, bullshit, bullshit," and anxiously, Rory backed away. She rinsed out her mouth, giving the door a nervous glance. She helped herself to a long drink of water. She wanted to use the toilet, but didn't feel comfortable with Maurice Emmell on the other side of the door. Then she decided she'd better, just in case. She pulled up her skirt and rolled down her tights.

She sat, heels up and angling out, her pale thighs tense and squished together. She closed her eyes, muttering, _"Come away O human child to the waters and the wild with a faery hand in hand for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand,"_ and after that, she was able to go. She washed her hands, and filled the glass again. She opened the door. Tentatively, she stuck out her head.

Maurice Emmell was leaning against the chest of drawers, strips of her blouse dangling from his fist. Rory swallowed. She found Jess with her eyes, and he nodded encouragingly. She hesitated in the doorway. "I-I'm going to give him a drink," she stated, and didn't wait for permission. She carried the glass to the bed. Jess indicated with his chin that he wanted her to sit on his other side, near the door. She offered him the water.

He drank it all, and when he was finished she wiped his mouth with her sleeve. "Thanks," he said, sounding a little surprised.

Rory put the glass on the floor. Jess leaned into her, and she cupped his check. He turned his face into her hand, and kissed her palm. "All she needed was a little time-out," he said quietly. "She's calm. I'm calm. We can all be calm."

"I want to have a look at your car before I do anything." Maurice Emmell came forward, and Rory ducked back on the bed.

"Wait!" Jess said urgently. "Wait—I want to know something."

"I don't care," Maurice Emmell said.

"Her family is a class operation, all the way. No offense, man. But how did they end up hiring you?"

"They _didn't_," Rory said softly.

The detective made a sound. "You think I'm not worthy? You?" He shook his head. "_Amazing_. You're a low class low life—and you think I'm not worthy. You stole their daughter. And it looks to me like you pretty much raped her. I mean, what the fuck _is_ all this?" He indicated Rory with a broad sweep of his arm. "She's battered, and you've obviously been holding her prisoner. We both know you've been keeping her tied up."

"I have not!" Jess snapped.

Rory pulled her sleeves over her hands. "I-I _want_ to be with him."

"So she has Stockholm Syndrome. She's a total nut-job. I don't know what this girl was like before, but she's sure ruined _now_. Doctor Superglue couldn't put the pieces back together."

Shaking, Rory put her head on Jess's shoulder. She wanted to crawl inside her boyfriend and pull him around her like a protective bearskin rug. With each weighty new label—rape victim, nut-job, ruined—Maurice Emmell was crushing her. She couldn't breathe. Jess rested his chin on the top of her head. "Answer the question," he said grimly.

Maurice Emmell let out a hard breath and abruptly changed course. He headed back to the chair in front of the window. He sat, putting his hands on his knees.

"Littlejohn and Longo contracted it out to me," he admitted finally. "There. Are you happy? Her family did not hire me. They hired Littlejohn and Longo, Private Investigators and Security Consultants."

"And?" Jess prompted.

"And Littlejohn and Longo are so high-faulting." He waved his hands around his head. "Littlejohn and Longo are so in _demand_ and have so much _casework_. They said, 'Oh, a runaway.' And they shot the file over to me." He made a face, scratching under his jaw. "They had better things to do with their time."

"It's nice you're not bitter," Jess observed.

"Shut up," said Maurice Emmell.

Jess sneered. "Perfect." He kissed Rory, and nudged her until she sat up on her own. He slid sideways on the bed until he was facing the detective.

"Where-where is this file?" Rory asked, with a half-glance at Maurice Emmell. When Jess had redirected her to the bed, she had ended up between the two men. She was uneasy sitting so close to Maurice Emmell—she wanted to change places with Jess. She hunched over, folding her arms across her breasts. She clamped her knees tightly together, the toes of her Mary-Janes barely sweeping the floor.

"Okay-" Jess sat up straight. "You picked up our trail at the diner-"

"No," Rory whispered, wiping her nose on the sleeve of Jess's jean jacket. "He did not pick up our trail at the diner."

"I already had your plates," Maurice Emmell explained to Jess.

"Ah—right," Jess said. One of his shoulders dipped sharply, and Rory narrowed her eyes.

"I was on the road and my girlfriend-" Maurice Emmell coughed into his hand and corrected himself, "My _secretary_ called me."

"You've never even seen the file," Rory accused, belatedly recalling her mission to distract Maurice Emmell. Cautiously, she watched Jess out of the corner of her eye. Did she still _have_ a mission to distract Maurice Emmell?

"Frannie gave me all the info," the detective said defensively. "Description of the missing girl, the plates-"

"And yet strangely, you don't want to call," Rory commented. She glanced at Jess. He had tilted his head to the side, as if he were listening to something very, very quiet.

Nervously, Rory looked at the detective, and her heart skipped a beat. Her thoughts were tumbling in her head like laundry. Maurice Emmell thought she was someone that she wasn't. Fine. That was one thing. He'd discover the truth, sooner or later. But all he had to do was call Tanya Kilpatrick's family, and the question of her identity would be resolved. Why wouldn't he do it?

Was it only that he wanted to be sure? Was it that he didn't want to look like the big goof that he was? Or . . . was he working some sort of angle? Rory stared at the big man intently.

Behind her, Jess let out a slow breath, and Rory glanced back in time to see him jiggle his right shoulder. He lifted his head. "They had reported the car stolen . . . Wait. That doesn't make sense."

"_Please_ be quiet," Rory hissed, wishing that there was some way to get her boyfriend to draw the same conclusion she had. She could tell Jess wasn't even paying attention to what he was saying.

Jess's eyes were unfocused and faraway. "We-the plates . . ."

"Shut up, Jess."

"I changed the plates." Jess fell silent.

"Please," she whispered.

Maurice Emmell stood.

"_Get down!"_

Rory collapsed on the bed. Jess had his hands free—the cuffs were dangling from his right wrist. He intercepted the detective as he was reaching for Rory. The two men grappled over her. Jess jabbed the bigger man and Maurice Emmell rocked unsteadily. They were men and fighting and almost falling on top of her; Rory couldn't help squealing and closing her eyes.

Jess flipped her onto her stomach, and with his hands on her hips got her up and crawling to the head of the bed. He surged forward, and so did Maurice Emmell. They reengaged at the corner of the bed.

Rory knelt in the pillows, not sure what to do next. They were between her and the door. Was she supposed to wait and see who won, or was she supposed to try to squeeze past? She didn't want to leave Jess by himself.

The men grunted, shoving each other and knocking things over—just when Maurice Emmell had gone and tidied the room. One of them kicked the water glass; Rory heard it roll across the carpet and clunk into the dresser. It was hard to predict which way the scuffle would carry them, but then Maurice Emmell was the one who was shoving, and Jess was at the foot of the bed, closer to the bathroom than the outside, and steadily losing ground.

Rory had a flash of inspiration, and slid down from her perch. Without weighing the relative merits of her idea—no time for pro/con lists—she picked up the chair and whacked Maurice Emmell across the back. He lurched forward, and Jess sidestepped out of reach. Rory dropped the chair with a crash, backing away.

"Come on!" she cried, and held out her hand.

Jess avoided the detective by skittering diagonally across the bed. He met her on the far side of the table, and grabbed her hand. They barreled at the door like a couple of Midwestern tourists charging a Las Vegas buffet.

"No!" Jess gasped suddenly, and lost his grip on her hand.

"No!" Rory cried, because Maurice Emmell was on his feet, and with a short turn and a lunge had caught Jess by the belt. He yanked Jess back and got a shoulder under him. Pivoting sharply, he took a few steps and threw Jess across the room. Rory watched in horror as her boyfriend crashed into the far wall and was still.

The detective descended on Rory. She recoiled, mewling pitifully. After all, she had just hit this man with a chair! He grabbed her by the collar and spun her to the dresser. He pressed in behind.

Rory could feel his whole body at her back, his chest, his knees, his groin, and she gagged against a sour taste, shuddering hard. If he touched her below the waist, if he touched her skirt, or her hips, or . . . anything else, she was going to check out. She was going to _depart_, and she wouldn't be coming back.

Maurice Emmell picked up her left hand, and placed it flat on the glossy surface of the dresser. He circled her with his right arm, and secured her wrist in an iron grip. With his other hand, he took hold of her baby finger. "Ow," she protested, but only faintly.

They were both breathing hard, but every time Rory filled her lungs, her ribcage expanded against the detective's stomach, and she couldn't bear to touch him anymore than she already was. She cut her breaths into halves, and then into quarters, until she was gasping futilely, like a stranded fish. Her eyes fuzzed over and her head started to droop. Once again, she heard the rush of the waves.

Jess stirred. He sat up, his expression blank and soft-edged. He leaned on one arm, looking around. His face resolved into sharp planes when he saw Rory wedged up against the dresser in the tight embrace of Maurice Emmell.

Carefully, Jess got to his feet.

"Here's what's going to happen," the detective said. "You're going to give me whatever you used to open the cuffs."

"All right," Jess said.

"Then you're going to go into the bathroom, and lock yourself to the U-Bend."

"The-the what?" Rory panted.

"The pipe under the sink," Jess clarified.

"No!"

Maurice Emmell continued calmly. "If you decline to do this, I'm going to break her finger." He bent Rory's finger, and she gasped.

"That won't be necessary," Jess said quickly.

"Then I'll ask you again, and if you still refuse—I'll break another one."

"I'll do it," Jess said.

"No! Don't do it!" Rory's knees buckled, and the detective pressed closer to hold her up.

"Give it to me," Maurice Emmell said, and Jess came forward to place a very small wire on the dresser. He reached into his back pocket, producing a mangled piece of plastic. He put that on the dresser too, leaving a smeary, black thumbprint.

"Jess." Rory struggled to make herself heard over the sound of the ocean. "Jess, please-"

"Go into the bathroom and lock yourself up. Hands behind your back, of course."

"Of course," Jess said.

"I'll be checking."

Rory's eyelids fluttered. If Maurice Emmell hadn't been supporting her, she would have fallen. "Please-please don't leave me alone with him," she begged Jess.

Jess ran a hand over his head. "You are not going to hurt her."

"Go," said Maurice Emmell.

"I don't care!" Rory said shrilly. "I don't care if he breaks my fingers!"

Jess winced. "I'm going," he said, his voice gruff. He disappeared into the bathroom.

-

"Turn on the light." Jess's voice was quiet in the dark. Rory wiped her eyes, and felt above her head. After a moment she found the switch. She was the one who had turned it off.

Blinking at the sudden brightness, Jess asked, "Are you all right?"

"Yes." She folded her arms on her knees, and rested her head on them. Maurice Emmell hadn't hurt her—he hadn't done anything to her at all. After Jess had locked himself to the pipe under the sink, the detective had escorted her to the bathroom and made her sit on the floor beneath the towel bar.

Maurice Emmell had checked the cuffs, and informed them that they would be on their own for a while. "Scream all you want," he'd said. "I rented the room next door, so there's nobody to hear you. And I had my boom box in here—I turned it up all the way, and went out front. Couldn't hear a thing."

"On the off chance you might need to keep somebody prisoner?" Jess asked. Rory had been unable to look at the detective, and had kept her face turned away.

Maurice Emmell paused with one foot out the door. "Not everybody is that understanding when it comes to young girls. For instance, there's child pornography. It makes them all hot and bothered."

"Stop needling him," Rory had said sharply, with a glance at Jess, but the comment had caused her to feel as though she had a big chip of ice lodged high in her throat. Maurice Emmell was an insufferable bastard for talking about those pictures.

As soon as the detective left, she had gotten up and tried the door. She had pulled on it, and kicked it and fiddled with it—she had even picked at the hinges with her fingernails. In the end they decided Maurice Emmell had used her old tights to tie off the doorknob. "You think he has a line running to the dresser?" she'd asked.

"Or to the bed," Jess had said. "I don't think you're going to be able to get at it." Then he had changed position for the fourth time in as many minutes, because his arms were pulled back at an awkward angle and already paining him.

"I'm glad he lost the urge to tie you too," Jess said now, and Rory, who had been feeling hopeless and weepy, almost had to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

"It's like it just slipped his mind."

"He's not the best and brightest," Jess said with a sneer.

"I seriously doubt he graduated mail order detective school at the top of his class."

"He probably read about it on a matchbook cover. 'Have a hat? Dark glasses? You too can be a private investigator.'"

"That is entirely possible." Rory got to her feet and put her hands on the small of her back, stretching. She was tired, and starting to feel headachy between her eyes. She realized that it was unfair for her to be stretching all over the place, but there wasn't much she could do about Jess's situation.

She had tried. Together they had pulled on the pipe, with Rory squeezing in beside him, taking hold of it, and bracing her foot against the wall. They had pulled and pulled and only succeeded in hurting Jess's wrists.

After that, Jess had debated dislocating his thumb. He tried to do it, but in the end it had turned out that dislocating his own thumb was easier in theory than in practice, and there would have been no guarantee that the cuffs would have slipped over his mangled hand.

According to Jess, Maurice Emmell had done something wrong with the cuffs, and as a result they were too tight. He had explained why, but Rory hadn't been able to follow; she really didn't care for handcuffs. The thought of Jess's hand being broken and useless had filled her with grief—finally, she had insisted he leave it alone. The subject matter, especially in the light of recent events, had been making her stomach do flip-flops. She hadn't thought Jess would appreciate sitting so near the toilet while she puked again.

"What the hell is this guy's deal?" Jess sat back against the sink. There was no way for him to get comfortable, and tiny beads of perspiration were forming on his upper lip. He began to rotate his shoulders. "Nothing makes sense!"

"Oh," Rory said sarcastically. "You noticed that too?"

He flexed, hissing in pain. "I'm sure your mom is going to want to roast me over a slow fire, but I think even she would stop sort of actually handcuffing me to a motel sink."

"Jess, come on. My mom had nothing to do with this." Rory tilted her head to the side, wondering if there was something she could do to make him more comfortable. She put her hand in the pocket of the jean jacket, touching the condom with her fingertips. When she realized what she was doing, she shrugged out of the jacket. "Let's at least put this under your knees, okay?"

She folded the jacket, crouching next to him. He shifted from side to side, scraping the handcuff chain on the pipe. His breath was moist and heavy on the back of her neck as she poked the jacket into place under his knees.

Jess settled down with a harsh sigh. "Rory, what the fuck is going on?"

She slid away from him, getting to her feet. "_Now_ he asks questions." She slouched against the wall, leaning into the towel bar by accident. She stood up straight. "He thinks I'm someone that I'm not. He thinks I'm this girl called Tanya Kilpatrick."

"Who?"

"Didn't you hear him? No—I guess you . . . you thought you understood what was going on, but he-it was something different-"

Jess fidgeted in discomfort. "Just lay it out for me. Please. Rory and Jess's latest predicament for dummies."

"He thinks I'm the book girl. The girl you stole money from at the diner." She sat on the edge of the tub. "Remember? You took all this stuff from her car, including the license plates?" Rory crossed her legs, absently bobbing her foot. "You know—I think I actually might have seen her. She was with her boyfriend. I mean, I guess he's her boyfriend, and now that's who Maurice Emmell thinks _you_ are. They were in that stinky old diner, back in Connecticut."

Rory stared at the bathroom wall, her eyes unfocused. "I mean, I don't know, I was so . . . upset, I guess. After everything that had happened with-with Dean."

She met his eyes, and he looked away. Frowning, Rory wondered if she was supposed to apologize to him just for mentioning Dean's _name_. She coughed into her hand and noticed for the first time that she had a big, black Jess fingerprint on her wrist. She held her arm up to examine the mark. "I-I didn't think anything of it at the time. But I think I'm remembering that they were there."

"Christ! Are you kidding me?"

"Yeah, Jess. I'm making it all up." Squinting, she compared her own thumb to Jess's print.

"Did she look like you?"

"No. I don't know." She looked at him. "Do you want a drink or something?"

"No."

"Do you . . . do you want to brush your teeth? I did."

"I know."

"I could hold the toothbrush for you-"

"No."

"Really, Jess—I wouldn't mind one bit-"

"No," he said shortly.

"Well, just tell me. If you do want me to do . . . something." She got up and stood straddling his legs so that she could get at the sink. His face was mashed into her crotch. "Sorry," she apologized, although he didn't seem all that bothered.

"Anyway," she continued. "It doesn't matter, because he doesn't know what Tanya looks like, not really." She ran the water, soaping up her hands. "He's never seen the file. He has a general description: girl, boy. License plate number."

She rinsed her hands, sticking her bum out a little. She didn't want to smother him. "It's really quite stupid. But I can see where he jumped to the conclusion. And with us carrying around her books, her books with her _name_ written in them-"

"Aw, jeez," Jess groaned. "So we pick him up, and those two get a free pass."

Rory dried her hands on her bottom. "Maybe it was for the best. It sort of sounds like poor Tanya is in a heap load of trouble."

Jess appeared to be having a headache. "We can't carry anybody else's weight, Rory."

"We do seem to have more than our fair share of bad luck." She gave him a wry smile. "I guess we shouldn't have robbed her."

"I did it." He squirmed, and Rory heard the handcuffs grate against the pipe. "You had nothing to do with that."

"I benefited from it. I didn't make you turn around and give it all back." She sat on the edge of the tub again. "Hey, why wouldn't you give him any money?"

"If he threatens to break your fingers, he can have the money."

Feeling cold, Rory tucked her hands in her armpits. "You should have let him," she said in a low voice. "I bet he wouldn't have." She decided not to tell him that Maurice Emmell wasn't the first man to threaten to break her fingers.

"I didn't know what to do," he confessed. "I couldn't think."

Tentatively she said, "It was kind of a bad call."

He turned his face away. "At least I'm consistent."

"That you are," she whispered. She got up and crossed the small space to kneel beside him on the bathroom floor. He lifted his head and she brushed the hair from his forehead, pressing a soft, dry kiss to his temple. "But Jess, something here is off. _Way_ off. It's so far off—it's someplace the concept of "on" hasn't been invented yet. He should just call, and Tanya's family would tell him. Why won't he call?"

"It's the cash," Jess suggested. "He's super pissed that I robbed him."

"And about his tires," Rory added.

"He wants to shake us down. That's what's going to happen." Jess grimaced. "Right now, he probably just took a break. He went out for a pork roll and cheese, or something."

"Pork roll and cheese," Rory said thoughtfully,

Jess snickered. "I'll get you one as soon as we say farewell to Philip Marlowe."

"Jess," Rory admonished. "You don't seem to be taking this _seriously_."

"I'm taking this pretty fucking serious, Rory! I was stupid enough to lock myself to a goddamn _sink_, and now I can't lift a fucking finger to protect you!"

Rory sat back on her heels, looking at her hands.

"I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "I know you . . . I didn't mean to swear at you."

"It doesn't matter," she said.

"Rory, I-" Jess blew out a hard breath, rolling his head on his neck. "_Anyway_. He said he was going to check our car. Either he'll find the cash, or he won't. I'm hoping he doesn't, but-"

She looked up at him. "Where is the money? I thought you-the last thing I knew, it was in your pocket. I thought he was going to take it all."

"Inside my seat. I stashed it."

"Why didn't you bring it in?"

He shrugged, as much as he was able. "I was going to get you settled and make a quick run for supplies. So we wouldn't have to go out again." His jaw got tight, and he looked away.

"Oh." She sat back. She couldn't allow herself to think about the night they were missing. Not now. She got to her feet and said, "Look, I wanted to tell you this before, but I couldn't find a way. I don't think-okay, maybe he just wants you to pay him back. But I'm not sure. I think he's up to something."

"Up to what? Eventually he's got to call these Kilpatrick people, and then he'll know he screwed up."

"I think it's something _else_."

"But what?"

"I don't know!" She stamped her foot. Turning away, she paced the few steps she had between Jess and the bathtub. "The way he's been messing with you, and talking, all that stuff about you being a sexual predator." Behind her, Jess made a sound, and she turned. "I'm sorry," she said. "I know how much that hurts you."

Jess changed position again, his face strained. "He's so stupid, I don't think-"

She interrupted. "Listen, what if we played along? Let him think we're Tanya and whomever. Just until we get a better handle on things."

His head shot up. "This is not the African Ladies' Detective League!"

Rory's brow wrinkled. "You mean **_The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency_**?"

"_Whatever_. Do _not_ play Nancy Drew. If you get a chance to run, you _go_. Don't pull this 'I'm not leaving you shit.'"

"But it's _not_ shit."

"Baby, you see your chance, you take it."

"But I-I _can't_. I can't leave you here all alone! Anything could happen!"

"You'll do what I'm asking!"

"Request denied," she said briskly. "You're handcuffed! To a bathroom sink!"

He swore. "Don't you get it? By now, don't you get it?" He looked away, a muscle jumping in his jaw. When he looked back at her, his eyes were glittering with anger. "I keep taking these beatings _because_ of you. If only I knew you were gone, safe—I'd be Speedy Gonzales. I would freaking _run_." He shook his head in disgust. "Do you think I _like_ facing off against bigger guys?"

Woozily, she put her hand to her mouth. Maybe she was going to throw up after all. _"Oh."_

"You _go_," he said. "You're Babe Didrikson Zaharias. You're Lyn St. James."

"Wh-who?" she asked, bewildered.

"People that are _fast_. You get out of the situation, so I don't have to worry about you!" He yanked on the cuffs so hard that Rory was afraid he was going to hurt himself.

She sat heavily on the floor, her back against the bathtub. She didn't bother to put her knees together. Let him look up her skirt, he'd seen it all anyhow. "I-I didn't understand," she said faintly.

"You're small, you're female, and the last time I checked, you weren't Eliza Dushku." He rattled the cuffs, sounding very frustrated.

"You-you were the one who kept telling me to come into the room."

"I was _mistaken_. You get a chance to run—you take it." He settled on his knees, and bent his head.

"Oh," she said.

"And we're signing you up for self-defense at the Y."

"_All right_." She was crying a little. She felt _terrible_. "But I still think we shouldn't tell him that I'm not Tanya Kilpatrick." She pulled the long sleeve of her T-shirt over hand, and used it to wipe her eyes. "I mean, I already _did_ tell him. But maybe he didn't, you know, _hear_ me." She sniffed, watching Jess as he wriggled and changed position. "These awful men. They have a tendency to devalue my input. It like when I talk, it's pitched at a frequency they can't even perceive."

"Huh?" Jess said, blinking. "I wasn't paying attention."

"Never mind," she sighed. She heard a noise. "Oh, crap. He's coming back." She bounced to her feet. "This guy is getting on my nerves."

"Rory-" Jess groaned.

She snatched up the lid from the toilet tank and set it down on the sink. Turning, she got her ass on the counter. She drew up her legs, and got into a crouch. With a little grunt, she picked up the lid.

"_Rory_," he said warningly.

"Shh! I'm going to clobber him."

"Swell," Jess said sourly.

"Quiet!" She raised the lid of the toilet tank, and Jess cringed. Maybe he was praying she wouldn't drop it on his head. Rory was just hoping she wouldn't have to hold it for long.

The door opened, and Maurice Emmell paused on the threshold. Rory saw him glance at Jess, and so did she. Jess indicated her with his chin. Rory gasped in betrayal. Maurice Emmell took the lid away from her, setting it outside the bathroom. He gave her his hand, and helped her down from the counter.

"Where are you taking her?" called Jess.

Maurice Emmell led Rory to the table, and Rory noticed in passing that he had once again picked up the knocked-over furniture. He pulled the chair out like a maître d and had her sit. He sat on the side of the bed, fishing in his pocket, and came up with a Sony microcassette recorder. "This is what you're going to say," he explained. "'Dad, I'm ok. Do what he tells you, and he will release me unharmed.'"

Rory's mouth fell open. "Are you serious?"

"Start with 'Dad, I'm okay.' Do you need me to write it down?"

"No," she said, offended. "I do not need you to write it down."

"What's going on?" called Jess.

"He's _kidnapping_ me."

"_What?"_

"I am not kidnapping you." Maurice Emmell nodded at the bathroom. "_He_ is."

She gasped. "You really are pulling a scam. A _big_ one."

Maurice Emmell turned on the recorder, and pushed it in her face. Rory leaned back in her chair. "Talk," he hissed. "Oh, shit." He turned off the recorder, and rewound the tape. "This time, talk when I tell you." He turned the recorder back on.

"Wait," Rory said slowly. "Her parents hired you—well they hired that other firm, but-" Maurice Emmell slapped her across the face. "Hey!" Rory's eyes welled up in pain. She put a hand to her cheek. "Wh-why did you do that?"

"That's not what I told you to say."

"What the hell is going on?" yelled Jess.

"Nuh-nothing!" she said hastily.

"I am disciplining your crazy girlfriend," Maurice Emmell said. "I'm employing the Skinner model of behavior modification."

"Oh, fuck," Jess moaned.

Maurice Emmell held up a finger. "We're gonna try this one more time." He turned the recorder on.

"Uh," said Rory. "Hello, dad. How are you?" Maurice Emmell slapped her again, and she cried out.

"Don't fuck with me," he snapped.

She started to shake. "I forgot! I-I forgot what you wanted me to say!"

Jess swore an intricate swear—it had compound adjectives and clauses and subordinate clauses and in the end was quite impressive. Rory could hear him struggling against the handcuffs. "Shut up in there," Maurice Emmell warned, beginning to rise.

"Wait! Wait!" Rory held up her hands. She was frightened of Maurice Emmell, but she didn't want him to start in on Jess, especially not when Jess was handcuffed to the bathroom sink. "Wait. Just wait. I don't _understand_. Her parents hired you to look for her, and now you think-"

Maurice Emmell looked down at her. "Do you always talk about yourself in the third person?"

"_My_ parents," she said quickly. "I don't understand how you think you can just tell them she-I've been kidnapped, and they'll react the way you want them to. Wouldn't they call the police? Or the FBI?"

"Not if I tell them your kidnapper said not to," Maurice Emmell told her. "Kidnappers frequently say that. In their demands."

"Is this something you learned from watching TV?" Rory asked.

"You have the wrong girl!" Jess screamed in frustration. "You're the stupidest detective ever!"

"Oh, he really is," Rory agreed fervently.

"I am a legitimate detective!" spat Maurice Emmell. "I have a listing on the PI Mall!"

Rory raised her voice, talking to Jess. "He's just some fly by night detective-type guy, and he got this job, and he thought he'd squeeze her family for a little extra cash."

Jess swore again. Even though he was just in the next room, to Rory it seemed like he was very far away. Gripping the chair arms with white fingers, she looked up at Maurice Emmell. He appeared to be furious. "That's what you thought right? You'd find this girl, and pretend kidnap her?"

"Fuck," said Jess, from the bathroom. "And pin it on me. Or on him—the boyfriend. Who you think I am. Dammit!"

Rory frowned. "So you tell her parents you found her, but she was kidnapped, and you made contact with the kidnappers, and what? They made you the-the intermediary?" Her stomach dropped and she got very cold. "And-and then what? What are you going to do? Kidnap her and then what?" She stared up at the detective, her eyes wide. "This is a very bad plan," she whispered.

"What do you care if I work a side deal? You don't give a shit for your parents—everybody knows it. I would have let you go." Maurice Emmell rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. "I'd have said he took the cash and didn't hand you over. It happens all the time."

Rory put her hand to her heart. "Mister, I promise you—you have the wrong girl."

Maurice Emmell gestured for her to stand. "You better hope that's not true."

"It's her!" Jess said suddenly. "It is her! You were right!"

The detective made Rory turn, and started to tie her wrists with the strips of fabric he had torn from her blouse. He wrapped the material around her wrists a few times, cinching it in the middle. Rory had to bite her lip as he pulled it tight—her wrists hadn't healed from the last time, and they felt bone-thin and raw. He shoved her forward on the bed. "Jess!" she screamed. "Jess!"

"Listen, asshole," Jess said frantically. "If you want her to make a tape, she'll do it. _I'll_ do it! Just tape the sound of her crying like that, and come in here. I'll say whatever shit you want!"

"It's hard to talk with a broken jaw," Maurice Emmell warned Jess.

"I'll do it, I'll do it!" Hiccoughing, Rory rolled over on her side. She tried to sit up. Maurice Emmell stuck the recorder by her mouth, and stumbling, she said the hateful words. The detective put the recorder in his pocket. He shoved her back on the bed and she stared at the ceiling, her eyes wide and unblinking, as he tied her ankles. He picked her up. "Oh, God," she moaned. "Please!"

He carried her into the bathroom and set her on her side on the floor, facing the tub. "Jesus," breathed Jess.

Rory heard Maurice Emmell rooting around in his pockets. He said, "Who is Jess Mariano?"

Rory stiffened, and rolled first onto her back, then laboriously onto her other side. She saw that he was holding Jess's wallet in his hand. "It's-it's a fake," she said, exchanging a frightened glance with her boyfriend.

"It looks real."

"Well, we've established you're not a very good detective."

"Why would anybody carry ID that doesn't make them old enough to buy beer?"

She opened her mouth, but Jess spoke first. "In my line of work I need a spare."

The detective raised an eyebrow. "I see." He leaned against the doorframe. "There's a thing I've been curious about. What kind of name is Fleck?"

"Excuse me?" said Jess.

"Fleck," Maurice Emmell repeated. "The boy Tanya ran away with was named Nicholas Fleck."

"Fuck," said Jess, and a tear dripped sideways down Rory's face.

"You both could just be really good liars," said Maurice Emmell. "Pretending to not be who you are. Or, pretending to be pretending you're not who you are. Trying to confuse the issue with all this 'her, she, wrong girl' shit. And maybe this license _is_ a fake." He pointed at Jess. "I know for sure there's something hinky about _you_. But the tape is still worth a shot, right?"

"Right," said Jess sullenly.

"I'll give 'em call, see what they have to say. And in the meanwhile, I'm going to get my girlfriend to fax me the file." He held up a hand, to forestall further comment. "Which I should have done in the first place, you're right."

He nodded at his captives. "Houdini, Mrs. Houdini. There's no way out, so why don't you both just relax."

"Bess," Jess said bitterly. "Houdini's wife was named Bess."

"Whatever," said Maurice Emmell, and shut the door on them.

-

Jess was watching her, his face tight and pale. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Were-were you into Houdini?" she asked. "When you were a little kid?"

"Yeah," he said. "Rory—are you all right?"

"He-he touched me too much. I didn't appreciate it." She squirmed, and was met with immediate pain from her wrists. She moaned, her whole body throbbing. It was like she could feel all the pulses beating beneath her skin.

"Try to stay really still," Jess advised. He wasn't taking his own advice—he had resumed his struggles, and was pulling on the handcuffs and the sink pipe. The noise alone was enough to freak Rory out; she could only imagine what the pain had to be like for him. He paused. "Rory, I want you to stay quiet and conserve-"

"I can't! It hurts too much." She felt so _trapped_. She wriggled and got her feet braced against the base of the toilet. "I'm going to try . . . to sit up . . ." She let out a hard breath. "No, I think maybe I _will_ just lie here."

Jess let out an explosive breath. "Christ," he said to himself. "I fucked up."

Rory sighed. There wasn't anything much she could say to that. She stared at the ceiling, wishing she'd left the bathroom light off. The room was hot and washed out, like the white light people were always urged to go into when they died in the movies. Jess was sweating, and the odor he was discharging was very acrid. She wondered if she too was giving off a powerful scent, because what Jess smelled like was fear. She regarded the toilet. She had a thought, decided not to share it, then went ahead and said it anyway. "Do you think Maurice Emmell has been, er, using our bathroom?"

"Do _not_ think about it," Jess said sharply.

"Oh, how can I not? I'm lying on the _floor_."

Jess rolled his shoulders, grimacing in discomfort. "I can't believe it," he said. "That guy, any of it. Jeez."

"Well," she said. "The upside is that at least it's unequivocal proof that just because _you_ believe something, doesn't make it true."

He lifted his head. "How do you figure?"

"Never mind." She thought about her nose. It was just sitting there in the middle of her face. She couldn't touch it, and she wanted to. As soon as she'd thought about it, it had started to feel itchy. "God, Jess! Why didn't you just let me bash him?"

He pulled on his wrists and made another face. "Bashing a guy on the head is way too hard-core for you. And the worst part of it is if you hadn't hit him hard enough, it might just have made him mad."

She sniffed and blinked back tears. "Oh, God. I-I'm so-" She wanted to say that she was scared. Instead, she swallowed and changed the subject. "Len Hartzke told me he was going to sell me to a Mexican whorehouse."

"_What?"_

"It was just a thing he said. But I thought it was funny. Now, I mean. I didn't at the time. But then I find out you went and registered us as Jurgis and Ona Rudkus-"

"Oh, God," he groaned. "Ona wasn't a _whore_."

"I'm just saying," she sighed. "Never mind the-the _other_ stuff. People could say I'm a whore just for canoodling with _you_."

"Nobody would be stupid enough to call you a whore. And if they _were_ that stupid—they'd have to answer to me. After I fucking stomped the shit out of them." He shifted his weight to one side of his ass, sighing. "People are idiots. Reason number one why I hate them all." He rolled back to the other side of his ass. "Maybe you should think about something else right now."

"Like what?" she snapped. "Kittens and birthday cake?"

"Rory . . . Rory, listen to me. You have to—it is very important that you don't let yourself get too freaked, okay? I know if ever you were going to freak, _this_ seems like the time. But if you just let go, there might be a chance and you could miss it."

"I asked him, you know. Buddy Hartzke. _Eugene_. I asked if he took pictures." Rory was aware that she was drifting, but there didn't seem any point in trying to stay. It was so very unpleasant to be tied up in the bathroom. "He leaned into my window—I had rolled it down just a little bit, and he had his big sausage fingers all stuffed in there—and he said, _"I had to immortalize the moment . . .'"_

"Rory-"

"He made me scrambled eggs. He acted like he liked me. Why-why-?" Her hands were nestled at the base of her spine. Without meaning to she moved them, and her wrists burned. She made a sound deep in the back of her throat.

"Rory!"

The room tilted, and she had to shut her eyes. Behind her eyelids she found herself tumbling down a dark hole thick with vines and thorns. Polaroid pictures blossomed from the walls like malformed flowers. After a while, the walls began to close in on her, and Rory was forced to dig. The earth was wet and she pushed it out of her way with both hands.

She saw light jittering in the darkness, diamond white concentric circles with all the colors of the rainbow hidden in it, and she was frightened. She didn't want to go anywhere near it—but then she just decided, _What the hey?_ And she _was_ in the light, panting and gasping and spitting out dirt. She was unsurprised to discover that she was crouched under a table. She spread her hands and looked down at them; they were filthy. She caught something in the corner of her eye. _Hey_. Her thought echoed in the great hall. _That's my backpack_.

But instead she crawled forward, toward a pair of fuzzy slippers. She could see dimpled knees over a pair of tall knee socks. It was a _person_. The person bent to look under the table, and her shiny blonde hair swept the floor. _"Oh,"_ she moaned. _"Paris?"_

"No, baby. We're still in New Jersey." Rory opened her eyes, and there was Jess. With effort, she focused on her boyfriend, and slowly the bathroom fell into place around him. "Hi," he said softly, his eyes moist and bright. He tried to rub his cheek on his shoulder.

"Hi," she said, blinking.

"Hi," he said again.

"Wha-?"

"Keep trying to fight it. You _did_ fight it. I saw you."

She frowned. "What?"

"Name a Dead Kennedys song that Black Flag covered."

She was confused. "What? Uh . . . _Too Drunk to Fuck_?"

"Can you name a Black Flag cover by the Descendents?"

She searched for it, and came up with, "Alex, what is _Jealous Again_?"

"That's my girl," Jess said, and gave her a small smile.

"I'm okay," she said. "I think-I think I'm okay." She shoved until her shoulders were up against the wall. Bracing her toes against the base of the toilet, she slowly got herself upright. She stopped for a breather, her chest heaving under the denim jumper. Then she pulled up her legs and groped around, trying to locate the buckles on her shoes.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Uh, just a sec." She got her shoes undone. Dragging her heels against the floor, she managed to slide her feet out of them. She had to stop for a rest; it was hard work lifting her feet with her ankles lashed together. She pushed the shoes away with the tips of her toes. "I'm going to . . . wait a minute-" She took a breath, and flopped over on her side.

"Careful!"

She looked up at him. "Sweetheart, this is going to hurt me. _A lot_. Probably, that is going to make you feel upset. There is _nothing_ you can do. Please—please try to hang on, okay? Be as quiet as you can and let me concentrate."

"Okay," he said tightly. Rory heard the cuffs rattling against the pipe.

She made the decision at the outset that it wouldn't be useful to take notice of the pain. She closed her eyes and put herself someplace else—but somewhere _close_, where she would be able to find herself again. She shimmied her hands past her butt, and drew her knees up to her chin. She pulled her stocking feet through her bound wrists. "Ta-dah," she said weakly, showing him her hands. Even holding them up hurt.

"Pretty fancy," he said.

"I've had the opportunity to work on my technique." She sighed in fatigue, and pushed herself into a sitting position. She could hardly hold up her head, she was so tired. "Plus I think my ass is less fat."

"Your ass was never _fat_," he assured her, and she shot him a smile.

"Thanks for that. But you can't be sedentary twenty-four-seven, and not have a generously padded posterior." She examined her hands. The skinny strips of cloth were frayed, and the knots weren't promising. They were in the middle, but away from her fingers; she could only see them if she held her hands down.

"I've spent a lot of time looking at your ass-"

Rory raised her head. "Really? Me too. Yours, I mean."

"Yeah? How is it?"

"Hah! You so know."

"No, really," he said.

"Firm," she told him. "Very firm."

"Good," he said. "That's exactly the look I was going for."

Rory's smile vanished as she tried to rotate her hands to get at the knots. Her wrists were burning. Shuddering, she swallowed a couple of times, willing herself not to throw up. "I don't know if-"

"Try the door."

She slid around, and reached up to grasp the doorknob with both hands. She gave it a tug. "Nope. He's rigged it again." Her two hands clumsy together, she pawed at the pocket of her jumper, and retrieved the disposable razor. She held it awkwardly. "I don't know if this is going to work, either." She couldn't really angle it so that she could get at her wrists. She tried to use it to free her feet, but it didn't seem to be cutting the cloth.

"No luck?"

"I-I don't think so," she said doubtfully. "This little blade is useless. It's just sort of _shaving_ the cloth." She put it in her pocket, and pulled her skirt down. "You wouldn't happen to still have my other razor blade?"

"You were being kind of weird about it. I don't know. I think I left it at Cameron's."

"So now what?" She turned to Jess. He was using his shoulder to rub his nose. "Oh, do you want me to scratch you?" She held up her tied hands and scratched his nose. "How was I being weird? I wasn't being weird."

"Okay, you weren't being weird. Scoot in here. Maybe I can undo you."

She wedged herself in beside him, the false cupboard digging into her ribs. She tried to align her hands with his hands. The problem was that with the pipe in the way, not only was he working backwards, he couldn't use both hands at the same time. The handcuff chain wasn't long enough. He could reach her with one hand, but when he moved to use the other hand, the first hand was tugged away.

He did try, hard. He closed his eyes and let out three breaths to relax and get in the zone. Then he had to do it againafter she made the mistake of asking what the zone felt like, because she wanted to know if she'd ever inadvertently experienced it (she had a theory that she had).

Finally, he gave up. He pressed his forehead to hers. "Rory."

"Yeah?"

Quietly, he said, "I would have left you here."

She sat back, feeling upset. "Well, you didn't."

Jess tried to reach for her—she saw his arms move. "That's what I wanted to do. I was prepared to use any method of persuasion."

Rory drew in a sharp breath. She glanced at the towel bar, her chest tight.

He continued, "And in the end I didn't—because I wanted to keep you with me." His voice dropped to a whisper. "But I thought about it." He looked away, blinking. "Jesus, Rory. You would have been here all alone."

Her stomach twisted, but she said, "Please, Jess. You can't go to pieces on me now."

"You were right and I was wrong. About _everything._ I am such a fucking asshole!"

"No!"

Jess nodded at the door. "You were right about him. Your parents didn't hire him. You knew that, and you said it, and I wouldn't listen."

"Please-"

"And the Hartzkes . . . all that crap I said to you in the woods. About how it was your fault. And even coming back in the car, I was still letting you take the blame. Like none of it would have happened if you'd just stayed put in Asbury Park. But Len was ready to beat the shit out of me right in front of the Palace."

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "It was never about the damn snake. I don't know whether it was because I took that girl away from him, or because my cousin left him, but he'd already made up his mind."

Rory looked at her bound hands, pressing her lips together. "Yes," she said finally. "I think that . . . yes."

"He tied me up . . . just like this-" His voice broke. "He left me in that shed. He just left me there-"

"Yes," she whispered.

"And now we're trapped in a bathroom-"

"We are not trapped!" she said tearfully. "We just haven't found a way to escape yet!"

He made a ragged, despairing sound. Rory leaned into him. She held up her joined wrists, so she could stroke his cheek with the back of her hand. "You're all right," she whispered. "I'm here, you're all right-"

"Rory," Jess breathed. Rory lifted her chin and pressed her lips to his, opening his mouth. He angled his head and kissed her back hungrily, offering his tongue. That was when Rory heard Maurice Emmell return. Jess swore.

The two of them sat stiffly as the detective made small noises on the other side of the door, untying the tights he had used to hold the door shut.

Maurice Emmell threw open the bathroom door. He crouched. "So," he said to Rory. "Funny thing. I played the tape for your dad, and he said, 'Who the fuck is that?'"

"So sorry about your ransom," Rory said defiantly.

"It's looking more and more like I am well and truly fucked, here." Maurice Emmell grabbed a handful of Rory's hair and she gasped. Her ass bounced on the floor as he pulled her away from Jess.

"No, don't-!" Jess begged.

The detective pinned Rory between his thighs. He held out one leg of her old tights. Maurice Emmell had hurt Rory's hair, and little lights danced back and forth across her eyes as she watched him tie a big knot. "No!" she gasped, and that was the last clear sound she made before he forced the knot between her teeth. He pulled sharply, wedging the knot deep in her mouth. He crossed the stocking, wound it over her mouth _again_, and tied the gag at the nape of her neck.

Rory choked, scrabbling at her mouth with her hands. The detective shoved her arms down, winding the other leg of the tights around her wrists and then around her waist, tying it at the small of her back. Her eyes were wild. She looked at Jess imploringly, but there was nothing he could do to help her.

Maurice Emmell scooped Rory up.

"Where are you taking her?" Jess yelled. "_Where the fuck are you taking her?_"

-

Rory felt she knew why gags were called gags and not something else, like mouth-blockers, or scream-catchers—it was because they provoked the gagging reflex. As she drooled around the knot, she imagined that black dye was running down her chin. The tights tasted foul. They were her tights, and she knew that they were clean. She had washed them herself. She had that to be grateful for, but that was about all. Everything else was looking pretty bleak to Rory.

Maurice Emmell had carried her out to the parking lot, and she didn't recall exactly when she had started to scream, but her guttural, animal noises had intensified when it became clear to her that he was going to put her in his trunk. She had struggled, desperately hoping that someone would intervene, but the lot behind the motel was a dark, deserted wasteland. Even the space in front of the last unit had been empty.

Now she was wedged half on her hip in darkness, with something pressed against her back and something pressed against her front, unable to bend at the waist to get at her gag, or to move her stocking feet enough to kick effectively. She howled—and every time the car came to a stop she tried to howl _louder_. No one had taken notice and her voice wasn't going to hold out forever.

The car came to a full stop. She fell silent, listening, but the main thing she heard was her own terrified heart throbbing in her chest. She screamed again, her scream ending in a sharp yelp of surprise when the car restarted. She began to cry.

The car rolled along for what seemed a very long time. It stopped, and she lifted her head. The trunk opened. Maurice Emmell shone a flashlight in her face. At first Rory couldn't see. Gradually, his outline took shape. She blinked and saw that he was holding a thin sheet of fax paper, and comparing the fax to her face.

"Well, shit." Maurice Emmell stuffed the fax in the pocket of his leather jacket. He pulled out a Marlboro flip-top and lit a cigarette off a Zippo lighter. He exhaled a stream of smoke from his nose and coughed. "Are _your_ parents rich?"

Rory stopped breathing. She stared up at Maurice Emmell, not knowing whether to nod or shake her head. Before she could decide, he slammed the trunk. She moaned, once again alone in the dark. She heard the engine turn over. After that, there wasn't anything for her to do but sob out her terror and dismay. She'd had a chance, sort of, but she'd had no clue which answer would have been the right answer. So she hadn't answered anything.

-

_So tedious is this day . . . _

_. . . so tedious. For-for thou wilt lie upon the wings of night . . . _

_. . . whiter than new snow upon a . . . upon a raven's back . . ._

_. . . he's taking me back to the motel . . ._

_Come, gentle night . . . Come . . . _

_Come . . ._

_Come, gentle night; come, loving, black-browed night, give me my Romeo; and, when he shall—what's the point in keeping me? What's the point?_

_Take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fun-_

_I mean fine, he will make the face of heaven so fine, that-that all the world will be in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun, and he's taking me back to the motel._

_Give me my-my Romeo; and, when he shall-_

_Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall—he's taking me back to Jess._

_Take-take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine, that all the world will be in love with night, and pay no worship to the garish sun._

_O, I have bought the mansion of a love, but not possessed it; and though I am sold, not yet enjoyed. So tedious is this day-_

_He's taking me back to the motel._

_-_

The next time Maurice Emmell opened the trunk he lifted her out. Rory lay limp in his arms, exhausted. It was dark, and she could hear traffic not too far away. She heard a solitary bird honk, and blinked, startled. Was that a swan? She hadn't known there were swans at the Sea View motel. Maybe there was a pond, and she just hadn't noticed. They should call it the Pond View Motel. Wasn't it too late for swans? _What day is it anyhow? _she wondered distantly. _I think it's-_

She lifted her head, having the impression that there _was_ water. It didn't sound like the ocean. The ocean was nearby, but this wasn't it—it was something else. Maurice Emmell crossed onto a different surface. She heard the sound of his heels thudding hollowly.

Rory saw mist rising off a black lake. The surface crinkled like cellophane skin, reflecting the lovely pale moon. She moaned behind her gag, horrified. _Oh, please oh please oh please . . ._

She realized they were on a footbridge, and began to thrash, jackknifing_. Oh, please oh please oh please . . ._

Maurice Emmell hoisted her, and held her out over the railing. She shook her head wildly.

_oh, please oh please . . . _

"Sorry, kid," he said. "But you and your boyfriend are just too complicated."

_. . . oh please oh-_

He let go.

-

_**To be continued**_


End file.
